


Write Your Name (Across My Heart)

by hedaswolf (thebaddestwolf)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/F, Fluff, multi chapt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwolf/pseuds/hedaswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Don’t worry, Princess," Raven says. "She hasn’t taken her break, yet.”</em> </p><p>Clarke works in the cafe of her local bookstore and she's kinda crushing on one of the girls who works on the floor. The only trouble is she doesn't know her name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tkross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tkross/gifts).



> My first-ever AU is dedicated to the birthday girl, tk! This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I've forgotten how to write those, apparently. Or I just have way too many feelings about these two. (Yeah, probably the latter.)
> 
> Anyway, have a great bday, friend!! <3

Clarke’s lungs burn as she sprints down the sidewalk, gritting her teeth as she weaves through pedestrians who amble along like they have no place to go.

She’s supposed to enter the building through the back but there’s no time for that, so she yanks the front door open and slows to a brisk walk. The store is already busy, with customers perusing new releases and clogging up the main pathway, so she cuts through the historical biography section and jogs down the empty aisles.

There’s a line ten people deep when she finally reaches the cafe. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees her coworkers working away with their heads down -- maybe they won’t notice just how epically late she is.

After stowing her bag in the breakroom and clocking in, Clarke rushes behind the counter as she ties an apron around her waist.

“Hey guys,” she says, wishing she didn’t sound so out of breath. “I’ll start on the ice blended drinks.”

“Not so fast, Griffin.” Raven looks up from the latte she’s pouring to shoot her a sideways glance. “I’ve burned my fingers twice already covering for your late ass. It’s the espresso machine for you.”

Clarke sighs and steps beside her, reading the order on the next paper cup.

“Please, that’s nothing. I’ve been making hot drinks for the past week -- burnt my fingers so many times it’s a wonder I don’t have permanent nerve damage.”

“Well maybe if you looked at your damn watch you wouldn’t be habitually late and I’d assign you to a different station.” Raven hands a customer their drink and turns to Clarke, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Bet you wish you hadn’t turned down the manager position now, huh?”

Clarke grins, emptying two shot glasses of espresso into the cup. She nudges Raven’s ribs with her elbow.

“Not a chance,” she says. “Too much responsibility for me. Besides, you’re the math wiz -- the owners wouldn’t want me doing the books.”

“Damn right.” Raven beams at her as she unties her apron. “But flattery isn’t going to get you reassigned.”

“Whatever, go back to your spreadsheets,” Clarke says. “Now get out of my way -- I have a system here.”

She and Raven attempt to glare at one another but just wind up smiling. Clarke shakes her head at her friend before her eyes drift to scan the faces in the line. Raven stiffles a snicker.

“Don’t worry, Princess. She hasn’t taken her break, yet.”

***

It doesn’t take long for Clarke to get through the backlog of hot drinks. Once she’s caught up she helps Monty with the panini press before moving to the register so Miller can take his 15-minute break.

They start to get behind again, with her running back and forth between making drinks and ringing people up, and she’s feeling a little flustered. Milk sloshes over the side of the drink she’s pouring, burning her fingers yet again, and she hisses in pain as she wipes the cup down with a cloth.

After she hands it to the customer -- who has the audacity to wrinkle his nose -- Clarke takes a deep breath and steps back to the line.

“Hi, what can I get you?” she says before looking up.

Clarke’s breath catches in her throat when she realizes who’s next in line.

The girl’s hair is tied back today, in a long braid that hangs over one shoulder, next to the crisp collar of her shirt. Like always, Clarke glances down to where her name tag should be, but, per usual, it’s not there -- she always takes it off when she’s on break.

It’s something Raven teases Clarke about -- that she was the bravest person in their high school class, but she’s afraid to ask one girl her name.

“You should put them under cold water,” the girl says. Her voice is always softer than Clarke expects.

Clarke blinks, blushing as her eyes return to her face.

“What?”

“Your fingers.” The girl glances down at her hand. “They’re burnt.”

Following her gaze, Clarke sees that her index and middle fingers are pretty red. She registers it in an abstract way, like it’s an injury that happened to someone else.

“Oh right,” she says, shaking her head. “It happens all the time -- career hazard. Like paper cuts must be for you, right?”

A trace of a smile flashes over the girl’s features, but then it’s gone. She presses her lips together and Clarke swallows.

“I’ll have-”

“-a triple-shot almond milk latte, extra hot,” Clarke finishes before she can stop herself.

The girl raises her eyebrows. “Good memory.”

Clarke smiles, tucking a few strands of hair that have come loose from her ponytail behind her ear. She flushes when she notices the girl is watching her movements.

“Sorry, I’m back, I’m back!” Miller rushes behind the counter. “I’ll ring her up.”

If looks could kill Miller would be flat on his back on the tiled floor. When Clarke’s done glaring she ventures a look back at the girl, but she’s focused on pulling bills from her wallet.

Normally, Clarke doesn’t mark regulars’ drink orders on their cups since she has them committed to memory, but in this case she always does. She likes the idea of the girl having something with her handwriting on it, if only for twenty minutes before it winds up in the trash.

For the hundredth time, Clarke wishes she knew the girl’s name so she could write it on there, too. If only she worked at one of the chain coffee shops where they ask every customer for their name. It’s against the rules, here -- the bookstore’s owners think it’s too “invasive.”

While she waits for the almond milk to steam, Clarke picks up the cup and sharpie again. She catches her tongue between her teeth as draws a tiny flame next to where she’s written “X hot.”

Out of her periphery, Clarke sees the girl walking to the other end of the counter to wait for her drink. She can practically feel the weight of her stare as she empties three shots of espresso into the cup before filling it to the brim with steaming milk.

“Careful!”

Clarke looks up to find the girl staring at her with wide eyes. She’s clenching her jaw, like she’s punishing it for letting the word slip out.

Something about the way she’s looking at Clarke makes her feel brave. She arches an eyebrow, holding the girl’s gaze as she fits the lid on the cup.

“Oh, I’m always careful when it comes to anything extra hot.”

The girl has schooled her features back into their stoic places, but Clarke notices her throat work as she swallows.

When she reaches across the counter to hand the girl her drink their fingers touch. The girl gives her a shallow nod before turning and walking swiftly away.

***

Clarke prefers to take her lunch break outside of the bookstore, but it’s colder than usual this week and she’s already on Raven’s shit list, so she decides to stay close.

Still, she can’t stomach sitting at one of the cafe’s tables -- one she’ll be cleaning at the end of the night -- so she makes an iced tea, puts a scone in a pastry bag, shoves her name tag into her pocket, and goes off to find a quiet place to sit inside the store.

She tries a different area each day in search of the best spot -- it’s too dark in the science section, too drafty near the non-fiction books, and too noisy beside the magazine racks, where the college students camp out.

Today she walks the perimeter of the store, seeking out a place near the windows so she can soak up some much-needed sunlight. When she turns the corner into the desolate fantasy section there’s a square of carpet bathed in light, like it’s been waiting for her all along.

Clarke grins and settles down on the floor, leaning against the shelves and closing her eyes as she enjoys the heat from the sun.

She actually brought her sketchbook with her, along with a marker borrowed from the cafe, on the off-chance she’ll feel like drawing again. But now that she’s here even the thought seems exhausting, and she discards the items next to her on the floor.

A few minutes later she hears footsteps approaching and she groans internally. She prays that it’s just someone passing by, because there’s no way she’s moving -- it feels so damn good to sit after hours of being on her feet.

The footsteps get closer, like the person has turned down her exact aisle, and she starts to worry they might trip over her when they suddenly come to stop.

“Shit, sorry!”

Clarke looks up to find the girl standing above her, lowering an open book from her face.

“Hey,” Clarke says, smiling as she tries to ignore the way her pulse speeds up. “Sorry for what?”

“I almost walked into you.” The girl shifts on her feet. “No one’s ever over here.”

It’s then that Clarke notices the brown paper bag in her other hand.

“I’m totally stealing your lunch spot right now, aren’t I?” she asks. The girl nods, eyes flitting to the marker and sketchbook on the floor. “I’ll get out of your way -- this is your territory, anyway.”

“No,” the girl blurts, clenching her jaw. “Stay. If you want. There’s plenty of room.”

“Okay.”

Clarke fiddles with the sharpie as the girl sits against the opposite bookshelf a little ways down from her. Her name tag is already off.

“Must be a good book,” Clarke says, and the girl raises her brows. “You were reading it while walking here, I mean. Couldn’t even wait until you sat down.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, and Clarke feels like the girl is trying to work something out.

“It’s a favorite,” she says.

Clarke waits for her to expand on that thought, but the girl opens the book in her lap and takes a container of grapes out of her bag. Closing her eyes again, Clarke rests her head against the shelves and listens to the steady turn of pages.

It’s so comforting -- the flick of the girl’s fingertips across the paper and the soft rhythm of her breathing -- that Clarke’s head grows heavy, chin drifting toward her chest. She nods off for a second before she jerks herself awake. The sounds of turning pages stop.

She blinks into the light and lets out an embarrassed laugh. This girl must think she’s such a mess, burning her fingers and awkwardly flirting and now falling asleep at work.

When she ventures a glance over at her, the girl is taking her phone out of her pocket.

“How long until your break is over?” she asks.

“Um.” Clarke rubs her eyes and glances at her watch. “About 20 minutes.”

The girl swipes her finger across her phone a few times and nods. “I set an alarm.”

Warmth blooms in Clarke’s chest and she tries to rein in her smile, because she doesn’t want to give away just how touched she is by such a small gesture. It’s been awhile since anyone has taken care of her.

“Thank you,” she says.

There’s kindness in the girl’s eyes when she nods. Soon she returns to her book, and the flicker of turning pages lulls Clarke to sleep.

***

It’s one of those dreams where Clarke knows she’s dreaming while it’s happening, but that doesn’t make it feel any less real. She’s been having this one a lot lately -- her dad’s alive and her mom is happy and she _should_ be happy, but she isn’t, because she knows it’s a lie.

“Clarke.”

Her mom is stroking her arm and she leans into the touch, because lies are the best she’s got right now.

“Clarke. It’s time to wake up.”

The dream falls away as Clarke focuses on the voice and the warm pressure above her elbow. When her eyes flutter open, squinting against the light, she finds the girl kneeling beside her with a gentle look on her face.

“I turned the alarm volume all the way up,” she says, dropping her hand from Clarke’s arm. “You didn’t hear it.”

“Sorry,” Clarke says. “I haven’t been sleeping much these days.”

The most adorable crease forms between the girl’s brows and Clarke can’t help but smile. She knows she probably looks like a disaster, with messy hair and sleep-heavy eyes, but the girl is looking at her like she’s a puzzle she just solved.

They’ve never been this close before.

It’s the first clear thought that makes its way into Clarke’s drowsy brain, and once it gets there her eyes drop to the girl’s lips. They’re parted and wet, like she’s just licked them, and Clarke feels her own jaw slacken.

A piercing beeping sounds and the girl scrambles to where she was sitting to turn off the alarm.

“Time for me to clock back in,” she says, gathering up her things. “And you’re late.”

Groaning, Clarke stands and stretches her arms over her head, feeling her shirt ride up past her hips. When Clarke turns back she finds the girl’s cheeks are pink, eyes glued to the cover of her book.

“Thanks for sharing your lunch spot,” Clarke says, trying not to smirk.

The girl nods. “You’re welcome anytime.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Just don’t tell anyone else about it.”

Clarke presses her lips together. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

After the girl turns to walk away Clarke covers her mouth with her hand, hiding a wide grin. Then she picks up her sketchbook and shoves the marker into her pocket, fingers grazing the sharp corner of her name tag. That’s when it hits her.

“Hey!”

The girl stops at the end of the aisle, turning slowly as Clarke walks up to her.

“Yes?”

“You know my name.”

The girl glances to where the name tag is usually pinned to Clarke’s shirt, cheeks flushing when she doesn’t find it there. Clarke takes the plastic rectangle from her pocket and holds it up in front of her.

“I suppose I’ve noticed it before,” the girl says, lifting her chin. “I do see you nearly every day.”

“I suppose so,” Clarke says. In the back of her mind she’s vaguely aware of the fact that they’re both going to be late, now, but she can’t bring herself to care. Instead, she takes a step closer. “But it’s not fair -- I don’t know yours.”

The corner of the girl’s lips quirk upwards and she huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Are you asking?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze drifts downward, like she’s considering it, and then a spark flares in her eyes. She steps even closer and Clarke’s breath hitches when she feels the girl’s fingers graze the fabric of her pants below her waist.

There’s definitely a smirk on the girl’s mouth when she steps back and bites down on the top of Clarke’s marker to uncap it. Holding the cap between her teeth, she grips Clarke’s wrist and turns it over, so her forearm is facing up.

Clarke keeps her eyes on the girl’s face as she writes, the cool tip of the marker in stark contrast to the warmth of her hand. It’s over all too soon, and then the girl slides the marker back into Clarke’s pocket and flashes her this little self-satisfied smile.

Clarke’s more than a little breathless as she reads the letters on her arm. When she looks up, she sees Lexa glancing back at her as she walks away.

***

“Oh, good morning, Lexa.”

Miller huffs as Clarke nudges him aside to stand behind the register so she can talk to the girl on the other side of the counter. She’d tried to get in on time today in order to get her pick of the assignments for this exact reason, but despite her best efforts she was still the last to arrive.

Lexa nods. “Hello, Clarke.”

Her hair is down today, aside from a few small braids, and it looks so soft and wavy Clarke wonders what it would feel like to twist the strands between her fingers. She used to do that with her hair sometimes, before things got so muddled. These days the best she can manage is a messy top-knot.

“So, Lexa, are you having the usual today?”

Clarke smiles, pushing those thoughts away, and is rewarded with a small grin from Lexa.

“No,” she says. “I was thinking of trying something different.”

“Oh, how exciting! What did you have in mind, Lexa?”

The girl quirks an eyebrow at her, a bemused smile spreading across her face.

“I’m not sure. What do you recommend?”

“Hmm.” Clarke taps her finger against her chin. “Do you like French press?”

“I’ve never had it.”

“Seriously? Well, Lexa, you are in for a treat. How does an almond milk cafe au lait sound?”

Lexa presses her lips together, like she’s fighting back a smile.

“I trust your judgement.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and starts writing the drink code -- and her name -- on a paper cup.

“Such enthusiasm.”

Miller shoos Clarke back to the espresso machine and she playfully slaps his arm before starting on Lexa’s drink.

“Just another minute, Lexa,” she says when the girl moves to the end of the counter.

“Clarke?”

“Yes, Lexa?”

“Is there any particular reason you’re saying my name in every other sentence?”

Clarke grin as she hands her the cup. “Just making up for lost time.”

***

“It’s like you don’t want to wash it off,” Raven says.

Clarke looks up from mopping the floor to pointedly roll her eyes.

“It’s permanent marker.”

“It’s been three days -- you could’ve scrubbed it off if you wanted to.”

Monty’s laugh rises from somewhere behind the counter and Clarke shakes her head. She wrings out the mop and dunks it into the soapy water before moving to the next patch of floor.

She shrugs. “Maybe I don’t.”

Raven looks up from the table she’s wiping and gapes at her with a wide grin.

“I knew it! Pay up boys!” she shouts toward the back.

Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “Seriously? You made bets?”

“We’re desperate for entertainment around here -- you know how it is.” Raven puts the cloth down and walks up to Clarke, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “But that’s so cute, Clarke. I mean, a little gross, and not super hygienic, but cute.”

“Shut up.” Clarke groans and halfheartedly shoves her away. “She might still be here.”

“Nah, the shelf-stackers always leave way before us, the jerks,” Raven says. “Seriously though, I’m happy for you. I know you’ve been feeling down since your dad, and then everything with your mom -- not to mention Finn -- so you deserv-”

“Jesus, it’s just a crush, Raven.” Clarke turns away to mop the last section of the cafe floor. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t even know if she likes me back.”

“She literally marked you, Clarke. I don’t go around writing on my platonic friends.”

“Oh yeah? Then why do I distinctly remember you drawing on Octavia’s face?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault she passed out at an art student party. The opportunity presented itself and I wasn’t about to pass that up,” Raven says. “Besides, Lexa didn’t draw male genitalia on your cheek -- she wrote her _name_ on your _pulsepoint_. That’s some romantic shit right there.”

Clarke laughs and glances down to hide the blush spreading across her cheeks. She drops the mop in the water bucket and starts wheeling it to the back room.

“I don’t know, Raven.”

“Just be open to it, is all I’m saying. You’ve had a craptastic year, Clarke. You deserve to have some fun, even if it comes in the form of nerdy lunch dates with a cute girl.”

***

It doesn’t take long for Clarke and Lexa to fall into a routine.

Clarke gets to their lunch spot first and sits on the sunny side of aisle. When Lexa arrives a few minutes later she’ll settle in across from her, like she did the first day she found Clarke there.

They don’t talk much. Lexa eats her lunch and pours through her book. Clarke doodles, sometimes, but more often than not she’ll pick at her food for a few minutes and spend the rest of her break resting her eyes. If she falls asleep, she knows Lexa will wake her up.

Most days Clarke finds it peaceful to sit together in contented silence. But sometimes she can’t stand it.

“Where did you used to sit? Before I so rudely invaded your land.”

Lexa looks up from her book, blinking like she’s having a hard time withdrawing her mind from the story.

“Where you sit now,” she says.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Clarke frowns when Lexa shrugs. “Well, do you want it back?”

Lexa shakes her head, eyes returning to her book. “It makes no difference to me, Clarke.”

Clarke’s glad Lexa’s not looking at her, because the way she says her name always makes her cheeks heat up.

“Well it makes a difference to me,” she says. “I don’t feel right just confiscating your spot when you got here first. At least come sit on this side with me -- there’s plenty of room, and you could do with some sunlight.”

Lexa closes her book, leaving the tip of her finger to mark the page, and levels Clarke with a narrowed gaze.

“Are you saying I’m pale?”

Clarke laughs, nodding her head. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Lexa squares her shoulders and begins gathering her things. Clarke’s about to apologize when Lexa slides the book across the floor, where it into bumps Clarke’s knee.

“Ow,” she says, and Lexa rolls her eyes.

Clarke grins as Lexa crawls across the carpet and sits next to her, placing the book back in her lap. The sunlight is glinting off her skin and Clarke kicks herself for not having suggested this sooner, because she’s never seen her look so beautiful.

Lexa closes her eyes and tips her head back, humming contentedly, and Clarke feels herself leaning in, like she’s trying to chase the sound.

“Clarke.”

Lexa hasn’t opened her eyes but Clarke feels like she’s been caught. She can’t bring herself to move away, though, and if she speaks Lexa will know just how close she is.

So she stays quiet and Lexa keeps her eyes closed, just waiting for her, or maybe giving her an out. And Clarke wants to take it, but she also wants…

Lexa drags her fingers over the carpet until she finds Clarke’s hand. She just covers Clarke’s fingers with her own -- leaving the decision to her -- and it’s so easy for Clarke to turn her palm over and link their fingers together.

“Lexa.”

Slowly, she opens her eyes and Clarke watches her pupils constrict as they adjust to the light. Lexa doesn’t seem surprised to find her this close; it’s like she expected it, like she’d seen this coming miles back.

There’s a charge between them, staticky and buzzing, but Lexa’s gaze cuts right through it. She’s looking at Clarke like she’s content just being here, like this -- like this moment, in and of itself, is enough. Like _Clarke_ is enough.

Clarke sucks in a shaky breath as the weight of Lexa’s acceptance it hits her. She looks away, not wanting Lexa to see her eyes well up, and she feels her shift closer.

“I set an alarm,” Lexa murmurs, resting her head on Clarke’s shoulder. “You should rest, Clarke.”

After a few minutes Lexa’s breathing grows slow and steady, and soon after that her body sags against Clarke’s side. Clarke’s eyes begin to droop but she fights off sleep, because Lexa’s fingers are slack in her hand and her breath is puffing against her neck and she doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

The next thing she knows Lexa’s tugging on her hand, easing her awake.

Clarke whines and she feels Lexa’s laugh more than she hears it, the sound vibrating along her skin. They must have shifted in their sleep, because Lexa’s cheek is tucked into her neck and Clarke’s temple is resting on the crown of her head.

It should be awkward -- cuddling with a work-crush she barely knows -- but Clarke can’t find it in her to feel anything but content.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s not getting enough sleep,” she says.

Lexa nuzzles into her for an instant before pulling away. Her eyes are lidded and her cheek is red where it pressed against Clarke’s shirt, and she looks almost bashful. Clarke feels her chest constrict.

“I should be getting back.” Lexa pushes herself onto her knees before standing. She looks down at Clarke, who’s just sitting there staring up at her, and holds out her hand. “And so should you.”

Clarke takes her hand, surprised at the strength of Lexa’s grip as she pulls her up. She’s a little unsteady from sleep and she stumbles forward, and if it wasn’t for Lexa’s hands on her waist she’d have toppled right into her.

“You okay?” Lexa asks at the same time Clarke mutters, “Sorry,” and they both laugh, faces inches from each other, neither willing to move.

Lexa leans forward and rests her forehead against Clarke’s, and Clarke wonders if she can feel how fast her heart is beating or hear her shallow breaths. Then Lexa squeezes her waist and steps back, stooping to pick up her things.

“Thanks for the nap, Clarke,” she says, lingering for a beat before walking away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping this up sooner than expected, with less angst than expected, because who can stomach angst after 'Thirteen'?? Not me!
> 
> Writing this helped me cope with the Lexa-shaped ache in my chest, so hopefully reading it will make you feel better too. <3
> 
>  **Edit (3/12)** : Yeahhh I'm totally writing an epilogue/3rd chapter. Stay tuned!

There’s time and then there’s Clarke Griffin Time.

It’s a term Raven coined months back, when Clarke -- who was never all that punctual to begin with -- started showing up to plans 10, 20, 30 minutes late.

Soon all their friends were using it and Clarke laughed along with them, took it as a joke. How could they know that she’s been having trouble sleeping ever since her Dad died? How could they know that, some days, putting one foot after another felt like a monumental feat?

But today, even by Clarke Griffin Time she is _late_.

Pedestrians jump out of her way as she sprints down the sidewalk, a light sheen of sweat beginning to sprout along her hairline. She didn’t have time to grab breakfast before she left the house and she feels it in the shakiness of her knees, the lightness in her head.

Despite all of that, she pumps her legs faster. Raven has been cutting her some major slack, but she can only cover for her so much. And Clarke really can’t afford to lose this job.

She flings open the front door and takes a sharp left to cut through the aisles, nearly knocking over a toddler in her rush. His mother casts a glare at her and Clarke glances back to apologize without breaking stride, but the words never make it to her mouth.

This aisle is usually empty, but the next thing Clarke knows she’s plowing into something warm and angular and soft.

She falls hard, palms of her hands stinging as she catches herself on the carpet. Clarke blinks, trying to get her bearings. When she finds Lexa’s face just inches below hers she’s reeling even more.

“Lexa,” she says. “Hi.”

Her voice is breathless and she’s practically panting. It’s from running here, she thinks. Definitely from the running.

Lexa looks up at her, eyes wide with shock. Clarke likes the feel of her beneath her, likes the sharp edge of her hips against her stomach, likes the way her wavy hair splays out behind her head.

Lexa’s chest rises and falls quickly against hers and Clarke wonders if she’s breathless, too.

“Hello, Clarke,” Lexa says, and her voice is so soft. Clarke smiles at her, gaze trailing down to her lips. There’s a gentle press of fingers on Clarke’s sides, and when she sucks in a gasp Lexa smirks. “Do you mind?”

“What?”

Whatever it is Clarke’s fairly certain she doesn’t mind, but she figures she should check. Before she can think better of it she licks her lips, and Lexa’s eyes catch on the movement of her tongue. Lexa opens her mouth and closes it again.

“Clarke…”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t breathe.”

Clarke frowns at her, then shakes her head as reality falls back around them.

“Oh right! Shit, sorry.”

She starts to lift herself off Lexa, bracketing her forearms on either side of her, but then she catches sight of her beneath her again and freezes. It’s a whole new angle, and something about the fit of their hips feels so right.

Lexa arches an eyebrow at her as she pushes herself up, resting back on her elbows and bringing their faces closer together.

“This is nice, but I should get up,” Lexa says. She glances at a scattered pile of books to her right. “I’m on the clock.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Clarke sits back on her haunches and reaches out her hands. Lexa takes them, warm fingers grasping hers, and Clarke helps her stand. Lexa grins at her and bends to pick up the books from the floor. Clarke kneels next to her, stacking the books in a pile, and when their fingers brush against the same paperback they both blush and pull their hands away.

“I actually should get going,” Clarke says, ducking her head. “I’m so late Raven just might eviscerate me.”

Lexa stands, holding the stack of books in her arms. She bites her bottom lip and gives Clarke a shallow nod.

“Pleasure running into you, Clarke.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but can’t help but smile as she shakes her head.

“The pleasure was mine, Lexa.”

***

Clarke slouches in the chair in the back office and props her legs up on Raven’s desk, crossing them at the ankle. Raven’s quick hands count through the bills in the cashier’s drawer and it almost sounds like the turn of pages. Clarke smiles to herself, thinking of sundrenched naps, and the memory makes her yawn.

“Am I keeping you up?” Raven asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because you can go -- you already clocked out, anyway.”

“No, I want to keep you company.” Clarke sits up straighter and reaches across the desk to squeeze Raven’s wrist. “I know you told the owners there was a scheduling mix-up the other morning and that’s why I was so late. Making sure you don’t get murdered all alone in a creepy, dark bookstore is the least I can do.”

Raven laughs and rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you recognize the great lengths I’m taking to keep your ass employed,” she says. “But really, you don’t have to wait for me. I mean, if you have other plans…”

“Other plans?”

“Yeah, the shelf-stackers were all heading to Grounders Tavern tonight. Their monthly trivia challenge -- it’s all they’ve been talking about all week. I figured your girl probably invited you.”

“She’s not my girl,” Clarke says, crossing her arms. Come to think of it, Lexa had mentioned something about the bar, but Clarke had been all too focused on the soft press of her cheek against her shoulder. “And, I mean, she said something about it, but it wasn’t an invite.”

“Wait, hold up -- she mentioned it to you and it didn’t occur to you that she was hoping you’d go?” Raven puts a wad of twenties down she’d been counting and gapes at her. “Honestly, Clarke. I know you’ve been out of the game for the while, but I didn’t think you’d forgotten the rules completely.”

“I don’t know, sometimes we just talk about our days,” Clarke says. “Lexa’s pretty forthright -- if she’d wanted to invite me she would’ve asked.”

Raven shrugs and resumes counting. “Not for nothing, but you’re pretty forthright too and you were once scared to ask her for her name.” She nudges Clarke’s foot with the toe of her shoe. “Just saying.”

***

Clarke pulls her jacket more tightly around her as she waits for Raven to lock up the store.

There’s an outburst of laughter from across the street and she looks up to see several familiar faces stumbling out of Grounder’s Tavern. Her pulse speeds up when she realizes Lexa is among them, face bright and smiley, hand clinging to the elbow of a burly guy Clarke recognizes from the children’s section.

“I’m parked down the block,” Raven says. “Want a ride?”

Clarke blinks and turns back to her friend. “It’s okay -- I think I’ll walk.”

Raven looks beyond Clarke’s shoulder and her lips creep into a smirk. “A walk, huh? So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

Clarke blushes and punches Raven’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Make me.” Raven shoves her back, grinning from ear to ear. “Enjoy your _walk_ , Princess.”

The wind picks up, but Clarke hardly feels it as she jogs across the street, cutting through traffic. Lexa notices her once Clarke steps onto the curb, and Clarke’s stomach flutters as she watches Lexa’s mouth fall open at the sight of her. She immediately drops the arm of the Children’s Section Guy and walks over to Clarke.

“Hello Clarke,” she says, swaying a bit.

“Hi drunkie.”

Lexa giggles, leaning forward as if propelled by the force of her laughter, and Clarke grabs her wrist to steady her.

“Pfft, I’m not drunk.” Lexa shakes her head and the motion is so exaggerated that Clarke has to press her lips together to hide a smile. “Have you ever considered, Clarke, that the problem is that... the problem is that you are sober?”

Clarke grins and links their fingers together. “You make a very solid point.”

“And that problem would have been solved if you had joined us, tonight,” Lexa continues, bottom lip jutting out into a slight pout. “We won, by the way. Three rounds of shots, on the house.”

“Ah, that explains a lot,” Clarke says. “And I thought trivia night was just for you guys who work on the floor.”

Lexa frowns and her pout deepens, and Clarke distantly wonders what her bottom lip would feel like between her teeth.

“But I told you about it,” Lexa says, or, more accurately, _whines_. Clarke can’t hide her smirk as Lexa pokes her shoulder with her index finger. “I told you on our lunch break, Clarke.”

Clarke flushes at her use of the possessive, the acknowledgement that their lunch breaks are now a shared experience. She catches Lexa’s finger with her free hand and links their fingers together.

“That’s just it -- I thought you were just telling me,” she says, stepping closer. “I didn’t realize it was an open invite.”

Lexa cocks an eyebrow at her and squeezes her hands. “Well considering you so rudely took over my lunch spot without so much as asking, I didn’t think you were one who required a formal invitation.”

“You’re welcome anytime -- that’s what _you_ said, Lex.”

Lexa huffs and rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

A voice sounds from behind Clarke, and it’s not until Lexa replies that Clarke realizes it was one of their coworkers asking if Lexa was going with them to the next bar. Clarke is more than a little disappointed when Lexa replies that she’s heading home.

She drops Lexa’s hands. “Want me to hail you a cab?”

“No, I wanna walk,” Lexa says, looking down at her hands like she hasn’t quite worked out why they’re empty. “I live really close. Like, really close.”

“Well at least let me walk you,” Clarke says. “In your current state you might trip over a crack in the sidewalk and break a tooth.”

Lexa giggles and loops her arm through Clarke’s, leaning into her side. Clarke can feel the vibrations of her laughter against her ribs.

“You’re funny, Clarke. Have I told you you’re funny?”

“You just did, drunkie.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“I’ll stop when you’re not drunk, drunkie.”

Lexa groans and tugs Clarke forward by the elbow, directing them down the block. “But I like when you say my name.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Making up for lost time, right? You said that, Clarke. That’s what you said.”

“I did indeed,” Clarke says, pressing against her shoulder. “Lexa.”

Lexa hums and smiles at Clarke as she steers them to the right, like her feet are automatically carrying her home. Then she throws her head back and looks up at the sky.

“Light pollution,” she grumbles.

“What?”

“ _Light pollution_ ,” she says more slowly, as if that explains everything.

“Yeah, I heard you,” Clarke says. “What about it?”

“It ruins everything. We build cities that burn so bright we obliterate the stars.”

Clarke smiles to herself. Of course Lexa is a philosophical drunk.

“Were there more stars where you grew up?”

“Yes,” Lexa says, eyes still trained beyond the street lights. “On some nights it seemed like there were more stars than sky.” A furrow forms between her brows and she looks down at her sneakers. “I miss it.”

She drops Clarke’s arm as they slow to a stop. Clarke looks around and sees that they’re on a side street, standing in front of a triple-decker house with chipping paint. The sound of dogs barking rises over the heavy thrum of bass, all offset by a distant police siren.

No wonder Lexa needs to nap, too.

Just the thought of someone as beautiful and _good_ as Lexa living in a harsh neighborhood like this makes Clarke’s heart ache. She takes Lexa’s hand and tugs her until they’re facing each other, standing beside a chainlink fence.

“They’re all still there, you know.”

Lexa blinks and shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts. “What?”

“The stars,” Clarke says, glancing up. “Even though you can’t see them, they’re all still there -- more stars than sky. They haven’t left you, Lexa.”

Clarke keeps her eyes on the night, taking in the sparse twinkle of far-off suns, but even as she looks into the cosmos she’s keenly aware that Lexa’s gaze hasn’t left her face. When she finally summons the courage to look back at her she finds Lexa’s eyes lidded and shining and, fuck, what she wouldn’t do for this girl.

She’s not sure who leans in first, but they move together slowly, Clarke pulling on Lexa’s hand as Lexa fists the fabric of Clarke’s jacket. Lexa’s nose presses into her cheek and she puffs out a sweet breath, like she can’t believe this is happening.

Clarke swallows, heart stuttering, but then she smells the tang of liquor on Lexa’s lips and she comes to her senses. They can’t. Not like this.

Lexa whines when Clarke starts to back away, and she loops her arms around Clarke’s neck to keep her in place.

“Stay, we don’t have to...” Lexa turns her head, pressing her cheek against Clarke’s. “Just stay.”

“Okay,” Clarke says, shivering as Lexa’s breath puffs hot against her ear. “Okay, Lex. I’ll stay.”

Clarke wraps her arms around Lexa’s waist, cradling the slight of her. Her eyes grow heavy, and with Lexa pressed against her the barking and the music and the sirens are transformed into something as soothing as the turn of pages.

Lexa’s murmuring something and Clarke nearly misses it because she’s too busy nuzzling into her neck, losing herself in the feel of her.

“That’s three times now,” Lexa says.

“Hmm?”

“A few weeks ago, when we first fell asleep together. The other day, when you fell on top of me,” Lexa says, voice slow and dreamy. “And tonight.”

She doesn’t want to, but something makes Clarke pull back so she can see Lexa’s face.

“Three times that what?”

Lexa looks at her with this sad smile, and if it wasn’t for the gentle slur of her words Clarke would swear she's completely present in this moment.

“That I thought you were gonna kiss me.”

***

The next afternoon Lexa doesn’t come to their lunch spot.

Clarke waits around even longer than her allotted break time, just in case Lexa’s only running late, in case she got held up. There’s a pang in her chest as she eventually walks back to the cafe.

She knows Lexa’s here today because she saw her this morning, kneeling to hand a wailing baby the stuffed monkey that had fallen out of his stroller. Clarke was in a hurry -- late again -- but she paused to watch Lexa coo at him and tap her finger on the tip of his nose, coaxing out a gurgling laugh.

So yeah, Lexa’s here. And she skipped their lunch break for the first time since she nearly tripped over Clarke in that spot more than a month ago.

Clarke’s about to clock back in when the hurt and anger swirling in her gut build into a kind of fury, and she’s turning on her heel and stomping back onto the floor. She walks down the aisles, starting with the sections she knows Lexa’s usually assigned to, and it doesn’t take long to find her.

The science section is one of the darkest in the store, but even in the dim light Clarke can see the slump of Lexa’s shoulders, the hang of her head. All of the anger that drove Clarke here dissipates, and she lets it out in a shuttering breath.

Lexa looks up at the noise, eyes widening when she sees her. She nods at Clarke and turns back to her task, slipping a large hardcover onto the shelf. There’s a pile of identical books on the cart next to her -- must be a new arrival.

“Where were you?” Clarke takes a tentative step closer. “I waited.”

Lexa pauses, the book halfway on the shelf. Her knuckles are tight around the spine, fingers splayed over something that looks like Saturn’s rings.

“I-” Lexa pauses and presses her lips together. “I’m sorry, Clarke.”

Clarke frowns and she takes another step.

“They have to give you a lunch break, you know,” she says, hoping to lighten the mood. “It’s the law.”

Lexa lifts her chin and pushes the book the rest of the way into the shelf. “I already ate.”

Clarke shakes her head and bridges the gap between them in three quick strides. Lexa freezes, eyes trained on the shelf in front of her.

“Lex, talk to me,” Clarke says, slipping her hand into hers. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”

There’s a resigned set to Lexa’s features as she turns toward Clarke, swallowing hard. She pulls her hand out of Clarke’s grasp.

“I apologize for last night, Clarke,” she says, voice even. “It was unprofessional. It won’t happen again.”

“It was- what? Unprofessional? I don’t get it, what are you-”

A flush spreads across Lexa’s cheeks and she sets her jaw even tighter.

“I drank too much and forgot we were coworkers,” she says. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

Clarke just gapes at Lexa as she turns away from her, taking another book from the cart. Her mind is reeling at how different this Lexa is from the one she held last night, all quick laughs and soft skin and celestial musings.

She thinks back to _our lunch break_ and _just stay_ and _three times_.

Three times. Clarke’s stomach sinks as the realization hits her; all this time she thought she was so obvious, but Lexa doesn’t know.

_Lexa doesn’t know._

“Lex,” she whispers, taking a step forward. “Lexa.”

Lexa gives her this puzzled look, hugging a book against her front like a shield. Clarke holds her gaze and closes the remaining space between them. She moves slowly, feeling like any sudden moves might startle her, and carefully runs her fingers along Lexa’s jaw and below her ear, until she’s cupping the back of her neck.

There’s a thud beside them, like something heavy dropped, but Clarke doesn’t care, because Lexa’s hands find her hips as Clarke pushes her back against the shelves.

Clarke’s heart is hammering in her chest, and she just catches a glimpse of Lexa’s eyes fluttering closed before she leans in, nuzzling Lexa’s nose with her own.

“A few weeks ago, when we first fell asleep together,” Clarke whispers. “The other day, when I fell on top of you. Last night. And right now.”

“What?”

Lexa’s breath puffs against Clarke’s lips, and then her hands are trailing up her sides and closing around her back. Clarke swallows, tilting her hips against Lexa’s and barely holding onto her train of thought.

“The four times that I wanted to kiss you,” she says.

Clarke’s mouth finds Lexa’s just as she gasps, and there’s a quiver in Lexa’s lips that makes Clarke’s stomach swoop. Clarke goes slowly, pressing light, gentle kisses to Lexa’s lips, threading her fingers through her hair and trying to make her feel as safe as she did on that sidewalk last night.

It’s so quiet in this corner of the store that Lexa’s whimper seems to echo off the shelves when she parts her lips, angling her head to sink more firmly into Clarke. Soon she grows impatient at Clarke’s easy pace and brushes the tip of her nose over hers, moving to kiss her from the other side.

It’s Clarke’s turn to suck in a shaky breath when she feels Lexa’s tongue drag hot and wet along her bottom lip. There’s a sound somewhere between a hum and a growl that builds in Lexa’s chest, vibrating between Clarke’s ribs as their tongues finally meet.

There’s no more going slowly, after that. Clarke surges forward, slipping her knee between Lexa’s thighs and shuddering at the aching pant that it elicits. It’s almost too much -- the sweet slickness of Lexa’s mouth, the warm splay of her fingers across Clarke’s back, the very, very distant awareness that they’re at work -- but Clarke can’t find it in herself to care.

She’s had a shitty year but now she has Lexa and, more importantly, Lexa has her, too. And there’s plenty of time to make up for.

***

(The thud Clarke heard was the book in Lexa’s hands, falling heavy and open on the floor.)

(Its pages display a panorama of the galaxy.)

(There are more stars than sky.)

***

The next morning Clarke arrives at work on time and, for once, there are no dark circles under her eyes.

Lexa holds her hand as she walks her to the cafe and they linger in a quiet aisle, for a moment, not wanting to say goodbye. There’s still a faint indent along Lexa’s cheek from when she slept against Clarke’s chest, and Clarke can’t help but lean in to kiss her there.

She also can’t help her lips from wandering southward, to the corner of Lexa’s mouth, to the plush slopes of her lips.

“See you at lunch,” she says when she reluctantly pulls away.

“See you then,” Lexa says. “I was thinking we should venture out -- try something new. I mean, the science sections has its merits.”

Clarke grins at the memory of dark corners and wet lips and stars and stars and stars. She links her fingers in Lexa’s belt loops and pulls her close again.

Lexa sighs as Clarke presses her nose into her cheek, lips moving against hers as she speaks.

“You really have the best ideas,” she says, and then she kisses her.

***

In the end, Clarke still winds up being ten minutes late.

Raven doesn’t say anything about the hickies on her neck, or the fact that Lexa’s name is once again spelled out across her arm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When more than half of commenters say they wish your fic was longer, your fic probably should be longer. And so here we are! 
> 
> I was just going to write a little epilogue, but naturally things got away from me. I have no chill with these two. Probably just one more chapter after this...
> 
> Enjoy and lmk what you think! Also [holler on tumblr](http://hedaswolf.tumblr.com/). :D

Clarke doesn’t usually look at her watch -- it’s not a matter of keeping time.

In fact, until three days ago it didn’t even work. She doesn’t know how long the battery had been dead before she noticed.

To her, it’s not a watch so much as a reminder of her dad. Just the weight on her wrist makes her think of the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled or hear the lilt of his laugh.

And every night when she takes it off, she reads the inscription her mom had engraved on the back and she runs her finger over it, promising herself she’ll call her mom tomorrow. (Promising herself that one day she’ll keep that promise.)

But the watch runs now, because four days ago Lexa noticed the hands were stuck on 2:14, and three days ago Lexa kissed her on the cheek and slipped a small, round battery into Clarke’s hand.

So, since then, the watch has served as both a reminder of Clarke’s dad _and_ a way to count down to the next time she’ll see Lexa.

***

Unfortunately, it was the motion of turning her wrist to check the time that lead to Clarke’s watch catching on the lip of a paper cup, and causing a freshly steamed chai latte to topple over. Clarke hops backwards but she’s not quick enough, and the scalding drink splatters onto her arm, just below her elbow.

Clarke swears under her breath as Raven leads her to the break room, where she sits Clarke at the table and applies some burn spray. The first aid kit looks dusty but the spray instantly makes her skin feel cooler, so Clarke keeps that observation to herself.

She sighs at the relief and, across the break room table, she hears Raven exhale, too.

“Good thing you’re fast, Griffin -- that could’ve been a lot worse.” Raven squeezes Clarke’s shoulder before sitting and packing the first aid kit’s contents back into the box. “How does it feel?”

“Better now,” Clarke says. “I’m mostly embarrassed -- what a rookie mistake.”

“Yeah, well…” Raven fixes Clarke with a wry smile.

Clarke raises her eyebrows. “What?”

“Look, I didn’t want to say anything since you’ve been coming in on time -- well, _for you_ \-- but your head’s been in the clouds lately, Princess.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

Raven’s smirk only deepens, and she opens her mouth to respond when her eyes dart to look at something behind Clarke. “Speak of the devil,” she says.

Clarke turns in her chair to see Lexa rushing through the break room door. Her name tag is still on.

“Clarke,” she breathes, coming to a stop next to her. “Are you alright?”

Raven snickers, grinning at the two of them. “She’ll live,” she says. “It’s no worse than what you do to her neck.”

Clarke shoots her friend a halfhearted glare as Raven stands, still laughing as she picks up the first aid kit and walks out of the room. Clarke glances up at Lexa expecting to find pink cheeks, but if anything her skin looks even paler than usual.

Lexa drags a chair next to Clarke, and when she sits their knees bump together. Lexa looks at her expectantly, brows raised, and Clarke’s chest constricts when she realizes Lexa’s still waiting for her to answer.

“I’m okay.” She leans forward and places her hand on Lexa’s thigh, keeping her injured arm propped on the table. “You’re so sweet to check on me. How did you know?”

Lexa nods and links their fingers together. “Monty found me,” she says, eyes trained on the red welt forming on Clarke’s forearm.

“Wait, he went and found you? He must’ve thought it was worse than it is.”

“He did seem worried.” Lexa smiles, then ducks her head. “And he said I was probably the closest thing to your emergency contact.”

“Oh my gosh, he’s adorable.” Clarke laughs as a blush spreads across her cheeks, then she stammers, realizing the implications. “You’re not really my emergency contact, by the way, in case you were worried. That would be weird, we’ve only been, um, hanging out for a couple of months, so… and I wouldn’t presume. He shouldn’t have bothered you, I’m-”

“Clarke,” Lexa says, squeezing her hand and stopping her rambling. “It’s alright. I’m glad he told me. And I’m glad you’re okay.”

Clarke smiles, her stomach feeling all fluttery. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Lexa nods and holds Clarke’s gaze for a long moment. Then she slips her fingers under Clarke’s other hand where it rests on the table, cradling her palm and stroking the side of Clarke’s wrist with her thumb. It makes her shiver.

“Who is your emergency contact?”

Clarke swallows. “My mom.”

“You haven’t mentioned her before,” Lexa says. Her tone is neutral, like it’s a casual observation, but Clarke can’t help but feel defensive.

“You haven’t mentioned yours either.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, like the waver in her voice isn’t giving her away.

Lexa holds her gaze, chin rising ever so slightly. “I don’t have one,” she says.

“Oh.”

It’s one of those revelations that should be surprising, but it’s not. Clarke wonders if she’s known all along, deep down -- if she subconsciously recognized the shadow of loss trailing behind her; if Lexa had noticed hers, too.

And maybe that’s why it felt so natural to huddle together in a sunny bookstore aisle; maybe they were both trying their best to keep the past at bay.

“I don’t have a dad,” Clarke says.

She winces, a little, because the words just slipped out. It still hurts to acknowledge his absence, and she doesn’t want Lexa to think she’s competing with her -- there is no grief Olympics.

Tears are building in her eyes when she ventures a glance at Lexa, and Clarke’s relieved to find nothing but quiet compassion on her face.

Lexa leans down to get a closer look at Clarke’s injured arm. She starts to pull back, but then she ducks her head again -- like she can’t resist -- and presses a soft kiss to Clarke’s knuckles.

“Does it hurt?” she asks.

Clarke blinks her tears back and takes in a shaky breath. She squeezes Lexa’s hand.

“You make it hurt less.”

***

When Lexa stops by the cafe for her morning coffee the next day, Clarke’s prepared.

Nerves jitter in her stomach as she pours the latte into the cup she’d customized earlier, and when she slides it across the counter to Lexa she places a marker beside it.

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Just turn it around.”

Clarke holds her breath as she watches Lexa lift the cup and rotate it until she can see the writing on the side. She thinks it’s a good sign that Lexa’s cheeks tinge pink.

Lexa lifts the marker and moves the tip toward the cup, but then she pauses. She bites her lip and tilts her head like she’s pondering what to do, and Clarke knows she’s teasing her, but that doesn’t stop the panic from rising in her gut.

“I was just thinking that we’ve been spending so much time together lately, which is great -- amazing, really -- but we don’t really _know_ too much about each other,” Clarke says, the words rushing out. “And every time we hang out there’s usually more kissing than talking, which, again -- _amazing_ \-- but I want to learn things about you, too. So I figured this would be the best way to start.”

Lexa beams at her, tapping the end of the marker against her lips.

“What would you like to learn about me, Clarke?”

Clarke groans and tries her best to shoot Lexa a glare, but it only makes her giggle.

“I don’t know,” Clarke says. “Your favorite ice cream flavor, if you’ve had your wisdom teeth out, whether you get seasick -- just stuff.”

“That’s a really broad range of topics to cover.”

Lexa looks at her like she knows she’s being ridiculous, and Clarke can’t help but smile. “Well maybe we’ll have to do this more than once.”

The marker squeaks as Lexa presses it to the paper cup before putting it back on the counter. She brings the latte to her mouth, lips smirking around the lid as she drinks, and this time Clarke is actually glaring.

But when Lexa finally lowers the drink from her mouth and turns the cup to show Clarke her response, all of the torture is forgotten.

Beneath Clarke’s scribbled, “ _Will you go on a date with me?_ ” there’s a big, fat **X** in the box next to “ _Yes_.”

***

“Wait, you two seriously haven’t been on an actual date yet?”

“Nope.” Clarke stops brushing mascara onto her lashes to meet Raven’s eyes in the mirror. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Oh, I don’t know... Maybe because you’re both clearly obsessed with one another, as evidenced by the hickies that keep popping up on both of your necks.” Raven bounces on Clarke’s bed, making the springs squeak. “Figured you’ve at least gone out to dinner, if only to replenish yourselves after all the sex.”

“Well, you figured wrong.” Clarke huffs, eyes trailing down her reflection to the fading red marks on her neck. She imagines Lexa’s mouth on her, sucking gently on her pulse point, and the memory makes her puff out a shallow breath. “And we haven’t had sex.”

“Whaaat?” Raven gapes at her. “For real?”

“Yep.” Clarke finishes with the mascara and screws the top back on the bottle, ignoring Raven’s pointed stare.

“Wow, that’s so unlike you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So what you just, like, make out for a while and then spoon each other to sleep?”

Clarke sighs and starts spreading blush across her cheeks, though with the way this conversation is going it’s not like she needs it. “More like make out for a while and then go home to sleep in our own beds.”

“Huh? I thought you were sleeping at her place.”

“That was just one time,” Clarke says. “It was an accident.”

“I see,” Raven says, chuckling softly. “Man. This is worse than I thought.”

Clarke finishes with her makeup and turns around, crossing her arms. “And that means what, exactly?”

“Aw don’t pout, Princess.” Raven stands from the bed and walks up to Clarke, reaching out to tug on a strand of newly curled hair. “I just assumed that Lexa was a fun distraction for you -- ya know, the work crush/fuck buddy thing. But you really like this girl, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, I guess…” Clarke lets Raven pull her arms away from her chest and take both of her hands in hers. “Yeah. Yeah, I really like her.”

Admitting it out loud makes Clarke feel all light and airy, and she’s caught totally off guard when Raven leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. Clarke gapes at this rare display of affection from her smart-ass friend, and she thinks Raven actually looks a bit surprised at herself.

“Well, she’s a lucky girl because you’re frickin’ amazing,” Raven says with a soft smile that slowly grows into a smirk. “Not to mention hot as hell in this dress.”

Clarke laughs as Raven steps back to appraise her, shoving her arm when her friend looks her up and down.

“You think?”

“Oh yeah.” Raven grins and hands Clarke her purse. “Now go date the hell out of your little shelf-stacker.”

***

Clarke holds the door for Lexa as they leave the restaurant, and if her gaze happens to take in how amazing her ass looks in those skinny jeans, well, it’s just a happy coincidence.

A breeze catches Lexa’s hair, making a few strands float beside her temples, and when she turns to look back at Clarke she seems almost ethereal. She smiles as she waits for Clarke to catch up, humming contentedly when their hands find one another.

The moon is hanging low in the sky and Clarke steers them toward it. She hasn’t told Lexa where they’re going next and she hasn’t asked, seemingly happy to follow wherever Clarke leads.

But if Clarke has learned anything over these last few weeks it’s that there’s nothing passive about Lexa; she may be quiet and self-possessed, but she is always at the helm of any situation, even when others don’t realize it.

She’s seen it in Lexa’s interactions with her colleagues, finessing schedules and settling disputes after the managers have thrown up their hands. It’s a rare kind of leadership -- one that doesn’t require power to command.

The bell of an approaching trolley jars Clarke out of her thoughts and, without prompting, Lexa jogs to catch it, pulling Clarke along. Minutes later they’re laughing, faces flushed, as they collapse into the only two open seats in the back of the car.

Clarke narrows her gaze at Lexa. “Do you really not know where we’re going?”

“Nope.” Lexa presses her lips together and shakes her head, hair swaying around her shoulders.

“Then how’d you know we weren’t walking there?”

“You tensed when you heard the bell ring.” Lexa shrugs, like assuming that meant they needed to catch the trolley was the only logical conclusion. “I’m a master of body language, remember?”

Clarke rolls her eyes before leaning down to brush her lips against Lexa’s jaw. She’d only meant for it to be a quick touch but she lingers there, nuzzling against her skin. Lexa swallows -- she can hear it -- and Clarke follows the sound, trailing her nose down to Lexa’s neck and kissing her, feeling her pulse thrum beneath her lips.

“Clarke,” Lexa says. It’s a warning, but her voice is rough.

The trolley jolts to a stop and Clarke figures she should hit the breaks too, or else all her planning will be for naught. So she sits back and loops her arm through Lexa’s, feeling smug as she takes in her parted lips and dilated pupils.

“Master of body language, right,” Clarke says. “Also a master rabbit hunter, speed reader, and army brat.”

It’s Lexa’s turn to roll her eyes, but it only makes Clarke’s chest warm. Not that she’s one to pat herself on the back, but this date was quite possibly her best idea yet. Each fact she learned about Lexa somehow made her even more endearing, even when she glared at Clarke and warned her not to pity her for her tragic backstory.

Lexa had wrung the napkin in her lap as she summarized the gory details -- her dad leaving, her mom getting shipped overseas, her neighbor raising her when she didn’t come back.

Clarke thought she’d built up a pretty tough skin over the past few months, but her heart ached as Lexa continued, telling her what it was like when her neighbor -- Indra -- lost the ranch during the recession and they had to move back east, crowding in with her brother’s family in the triple decker where traffic and sirens serve as constant reminders that she’s far from home.

When Lexa was done, eyes wet and far-away, Clarke only pressed her ankle against Lexa’s calf, anchoring her as she blinked back the past.

The trolley jerks, taking a sharp turn and bringing Clarke back to the present.

“Yes,” Lexa says, smiling. “But you forgot that I’m also an expert horseman, hitchiker, and hair-braider.”

Clarke beams at her, unable to resist leaning in to kiss her cheek. “So multi-talented.”

Lexa giggles and pokes Clarke’s side. “Says the girl who went to college on an art scholarship.”

“That’s just one talent,” Clarke says. “And I don’t know it if even counts anymore -- I’ve barely drawn since I graduated.”

“You’ve had other things to deal with.” Lexa links their fingers together and squeezes her hand. “Though, you’ve been bringing your sketchbook around everywhere lately. Feeling inspired again?”

The trolley is packed with passengers, now, and the air is bordering on stifling, but Lexa looks at her with these wide, caring eyes and a part of Clarke thinks she’d be happy, here, forever.

“I think so,” she says, her heart is hammering as if Lexa asked a different question entirely. “I think I am.”

***

Their destination is a seven-block walk from the end of the trolley line, and Clarke can’t take her eyes off Lexa as she tips her head back, inhaling a deep breath.

“Do you know where we’re going now?”

Lexa peers at her, brow furrowed. “The beach?”

“Warmer,” Clarke says, linking their arms. “But no.”

They’re five blocks away when seagulls circle overhead, and two blocks away when they can finally hear the waves. Clarke’s pulse speeds up with nervous anticipation and she tugs Lexa to a stop beneath a streetlight.

There’s something she wants to ask her, but Lexa’s giving her one of those looks -- all curious and content -- and Clarke’s leaning in like she doesn’t have a choice. They’ve been doing this for weeks, now, but Lexa still gasps just before their lips meet, fingers tentative as she reaches up to cup Clarke’s face.

Clarke, on the other hand, kisses Lexa like she’ll be ripped from her grasp. Her hands bunch up the fabric of her top and she angles her head, nose pressing into Lexa’s cheek as she swipes her tongue along her bottom lip.

All hesitancy is gone by the time Lexa’s tongue meets hers, and Clarke slips her fingers up under Lexa’s shirt, raking her nails lightly down her back. It elicits the sound she’s been seeking -- a tiny, strangled cry from the back of Lexa’s throat -- and she pants as she winds the kiss down, pressing her lips chastely to the corner of Lexa’s mouth.

Lexa groans, resting her forehead against Clarke’s. “You do that at the rudest times.”

Clarke chuckles and takes a step back, keeping her hands on Lexa’s hips. “Do you remember the things I said I wanted to get to know about you?”

Lexa lets out a breathy laugh.

“Let’s see,” she says, tapping a finger on her chin. “Black raspberry is my favorite ice cream flavor, had my wisdom teeth out last year, and… _oh my god_.”

Lexa’s eyes widen as a smile blooms across her features, and Clarke barely has time to nod in confirmation before she’s getting pulled down the street until they’re racing to the docks. The grin doesn’t leave Lexa’s face as they board the boat, walk past the bar, and take the stairs to the empty second level.

As soon as the engines rev on music starts playing -- signalling the official start of the booze cruise -- but, standing beside Lexa, the cacophony seems to fade away.

The boat makes its way across the harbor with Lexa at the bow, resting her forearms on the railings and staring at the inky horizon. Her hair is flying out behind her, strands tangling in the wind, and when she turns to smile at Clarke her nose is red and her eyes are shining.

“So?” Clarke nudges Lexa’s shoulder with her own. “Do you get seasick?”

Lexa quirks an eyebrow at her. “We’re about to find out.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry it's been 84 years since I last updated!! This chapter is disgustingly fluffy and sappy, so I hope it is worth the wait. :D
> 
> There's at least one more chapt after this! Oof, and this fic was meant to be a one-shot...

Clarke looks over her shoulder and smiles when she sees the city’s skyline getting smaller and smaller in the distance. She’d forgotten how nice it is to hit the open seas and leave the hustle and bustle behind for a while.

The boat veers to the left, making the deck tilt and Lexa lose her footing. She stumbles to the side and, though she catches herself on the railing, Clarke takes the opportunity to put her arm around her waist.

You know, just to be safe.

“Easy,” Clarke says, squeezing Lexa’s side. “You still need to get your sea legs.”

“Good thing I have you to keep me upright.” Lexa laughs and leans more heavily against her. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Lexa rolls her eyes. “Maybe because a few minutes ago you told me to ‘look toward the _starboard_.’”

“Hah, oh right. That’s a dead giveaway,” Clarke says, ducking her head. “My parents used to own a sailboat -- docked it up on the north shore. We practically lived on it in the summer.”

Lexa smiles and nudges Clarke’s shoulder. “That sounds really nice.”

“It was,” Clarke says, smiling back for an instant before her face falls. “But then my mom sold it pretty soon after he died. And I kind of… overreacted.”

It’s getting darker, the ocean and the sky indistinguishable at the horizon's end. Clarke stares out at it, trying to find where the sea meets the sky to distract herself from the gloomy thoughts threatening her mind. Then she feels Lexa’s hand cover hers on the railing and she nearly forgets why she was feeling sad.

“Is that why you had a falling out?”

Lexa’s looking at her with such open acceptance that it’s staggering. Usually when people learn Clarke’s not talking with her mom there’s judgement mixed up in their concern -- like a part of them thinks she’s just being petty, pushing her one remaining parent away.

But there’s none of that in Lexa’s question. It’s like she’s asking to share the burden of her answer and nothing more. Clarke leans in and kisses her just below her ear, hoping it’s too dark for Lexa to see the tears in her eyes.

“That’s part of it,” Clarke says. “She moved on pretty fast -- started dating this new guy. They live together, now. And I know everyone grieves differently and I _know_ she loved my dad so much, but I just. It hurt. And hurt and hurt until I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

There’s no hiding the dampness in Clarke’s eyes, now, and she turns into the wind, focusing on the crisp air hitting her cheeks. She’s mad at herself for bringing this up -- on their first date, of all times. Sure, she’d wanted them to get to know each other better, but that didn’t mean airing out all of her dirty laundry.

“It’s difficult when the ones you love remind you of the ones you’ve lost,” Lexa says, voice gentle and steady. “Sometimes cutting ties seems easier -- like you can leave it all in the past and start fresh. Convince yourself that love is weakness.”

Clarke sniffles and nods, letting Lexa guide her head to rest on her shoulder. “Is that what you did?”

“For a time, yes,” Lexa says, lips moving against Clarke’s temple. “But it turned out the universe had other plans.”

Clarke draws in a sharp breath and hopes against hope that Lexa couldn’t hear it over the wind. She lifts her head off Lexa’s shoulder to find her gazing at her with wide, earnest eyes that make Clarke wonder if she has her sea legs after all.

Lexa lifts her chin, unblinking and brave, and Clarke thinks the universe had other plans for her, too. She wants to tell her -- to let her know she feels the same -- but the boat starts to slow down, letting her know they’re almost there.

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Clarke asks, giggling at the way Lexa’s brow furrows. “Your stomach, I mean. Any queasiness?”

“So far so good. Lucky for you.” Lexa bumps Clarke’s hip with her own. “Vomiting would’ve really put a damper on our first date.”

“Hey, no risk no reward.” Clarke grins and reaches down to unzip her bag, holding it open to Lexa. “But I came prepared, just in case.”

“Oh my god.” Lexa covers her mouth with her hand as she laughs, reaching in to sift through the array of seasickness medicine and wrist bands. “It’s like you bought the whole pharmacy.”

“Pretty much,” Clarke says. “Of course, had I known about your rough-and-tumble rancher past I wouldn’t have bothered -- you’re built from sturdy stock, Lex.”

Lexa bites her lip and ducks her head, looking up at Clarke through her lashes. “You’re literally holding me up right now, Clarke.”

Clarke huffs out a laugh, knees shaking again from the heat of her gaze.

“Actually, I think we’re both holding up each other.”

***

As the boat continues to slow, Clarke sits on the deck and tugs Lexa down with her. Lexa lifts her eyebrows -- probably confused because in this position they can’t see the waves -- but Clarke finds her hand and squeezes, and Lexa leans into her side.

Now they’re _really_ almost there.

Clarke had gone on this particular party boat a couple of times before, though she’d never really had a good time. The DJs were mediocre and the drinks were weak and she always found herself wandering around the uncovered upper deck alone, waiting the voyage out.

An unintended benefit turned out to be that she learned the route the boat took around the harbor and remembered exactly where the captain idled the ship for a good half hour before heading back to shore.

When the roaring engine finally shuts off they can hear the waves hitting the hull of the boat, rocking it slightly from side to side. The passengers on the main level must be a dull crowd, because aside from the steady beat of the music there’s no evidence of the party going on downstairs.

Lexa presses her lips to Clarke’s shoulder and, for an instant, it feels like they’re the only ones here, drifting out to sea.

When Lexa looks over at her she’s smiling, cheeks flushed and hair wind-blown, and Clarke can’t help but kiss a path from her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

“Close your eyes,” Clarke whispers, lips moving against her skin.

“They already are,” Lexa whispers back.

Clarke pokes Lexa’s ribs and giggles into her neck. “Well, keep them closed,” she says. “And lie down.” Then, when Lexa hesitates, “I’ve got you.”

She helps Lexa lie back on the deck before settling down beside her, pressed up against her so she knows she’s there. Clarke takes a moment to gaze at Lexa like this, and she looks so peaceful -- patiently waiting with a gentle smile -- that her heart speeds up.

“Okay,” she says, finding Lexa’s hand and linking their fingers together. “You can open them.”

Lexa’s eyes flutter open, blinking into focus, and Clarke can’t tear her gaze from her face. After a few seconds her lips part, her hand clenching around Clarke’s as she lets out a disbelieving gasp.

Clarke’s eyes stay on Lexa, but she knows what she sees -- stars, thousands of them shining in the night sky; tiny pinpricks in a tapestry, letting the light show through.

“Clarke,” Lexa breathes, blinking back tears. “God, _Clarke_.”

“It was the easiest way to avoid light pollution without renting a car.” Clarke leans in and kisses her cheek. “I’m sure the view was way better where you used to live, but-”

Lexa turns to look at her with a furrow between her brows, and Clarke loses her train of thought. There are stars in her eyes, and Clarke almost forgets to shut hers when Lexa leans in to kiss her.

Somewhere, in the back of Clarke’s mind, she’s aware that things aren’t going according to plan. The boat will head back to the city, soon, and Lexa’s missing her chance to soak in the expanse of the universe.

But mostly Clarke’s focused on the slide of Lexa’s tongue against hers, the hot press of her fingertips on her thigh, just under the hem of her dress. With her last scrap of restraint Clarke rolls Lexa onto her back, settling half on top of her and kissing down to her neck.

“Are your eyes open?” she pants, licking Lexa’s pulse point.

“ _Clarke_.” Lexa’s voice is rough, coming out like more of a pant, and Clarke closes her lips on her neck and sucks. There’s a chill in the air, but heat flashes through Clarke’s body as Lexa’s fingers tangle in her hair. “Yes, yes.”

Clarke isn’t sure if the words are an answer or an affirmation, but she’s not about to ask. Tonight, there are more stars than sky, and Clarke tastes galaxies on Lexa’s skin.

***

The next day at work there’s a blotchy constellation on Lexa’s neck, poking out above the collar of her shirt.

***

“Man, you are killing me, Princess.” Raven downs the rest of her beer and sets it on the bar, nodding to the bartender for another round. “This is just getting ridiculous.”

“Please, I’m killing _you_? I’m killing _me_.”

Two fresh beers appear in front of them and Raven waits for Clarke to gulp the dregs of the one in her hand before responding.

“Well that’s your own fault,” she says once Clarke has started on beer number three. Or was it four? “I still don’t get why you didn’t just take her home after your _super romantic date_ \-- your words.”

Clarke sighs and looks over Raven’s shoulder, past the other patrons in the rooftop bar to scan the twinkling city skyline. The moon is a sliver, hanging low in the sky, and when she lets her eyes go out of focus the spectrum of lights from the buildings almost looks like the cosmos.

Lexa would like it here.

“Hello, Earth to Clarke,” Raven says, waving a hand in front of her face.

“Sorry.” Clarke laughs, shaking her head to clear her thoughts. “What were we talking about?”

“Why you’re taking it so damn slow with your shelf-stacking girlfriend.” Raven punches her arm and gives her a teasing smile. “Who I assume you just zoned out thinking about.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, thankful for the bar’s dim lighting that is hopefully hiding her guilty flush.

“Well, it’s like we’ve done everything backwards -- practically became napping buddies before I even knew her name, then moved right along to make-out partners,” Clarke says. She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “I didn’t even realize I hardly knew anything about her until we talked in the break room when I burnt my arm. I didn’t realize how much I _wanted_ to get to know her…”

There’s amusement and sympathy there in Raven’s eyes, so Clarke looks out at the horizon again. It only takes her a few seconds to spot the row of docks where Lexa had clung to her as they disembarked the boat.

She had teetered and Clarke made a joke about land legs, offering her a piggy back ride back to her house. Lexa quirked an eyebrow at her -- like she didn’t think Clarke could hold her -- so Clarke wrapped her arms around her waist, hoisted her up, and spun, feeling her skirt twirl around her thighs.

Lexa laughed and shrieked, burying her face in the crook of Clarke’s neck, and when she set her down they stood with their foreheads pressed together, panting and waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Raven snickers and Clarke blinks, refocusing on her friend.

“That’s very noble of you, Clarke, but I don’t see why the two are mutually exclusive.” Raven finishes her beer in three long gulps and slams the glass down on the bar. “Getting to know her and getting to _know_ her. Like, biblically. In case that wasn’t clear.”

Clarke knows she’s edging toward the drunk side of tipsy when her laugh turns into a giggle.

“Yeah, I got it, thanks Raven. And, maybe it’s the beers talking, but you make a good point. It’s just… I don’t want her to think that’s important. I mean, it _is_ , god, I’d love to… _fuck_.” She takes another sip of beer as Raven smothers a laugh against the back of her hand. “It’s important, but she’s _more_ important. She’s the most important.”

“Oh my god, stop saying ‘important’ -- it’s beginning to lose all meaning.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

The two dissolve into laughter and don’t even notice when the bartender replaces their empty glasses with two cups of water.

“Fuck, Clarkie, I haven’t seen you like this since you _thought_ you were in love with Finn -- and you were already hitting it on the reg.”

“Eugh, don’t remind me,” Clarke says. “Besides, this is different.”

Finn was a means to an end. He was a distraction that she poured her attention into after her dad died, someone who listened when things went to shit with her mom. It could never have ended well -- it’s all too clear in retrospect.

“Yeah.” Raven nods sagely. “This time it’s real.”

Raven brings the cup of water to her mouth and wrinkles her nose when she realizes it’s not beer. Clarke’s lips curl upwards automatically and she waits to hear her own laugh, but it doesn’t come. It’s weighted down by Raven’s words -- by the realization that’s so obvious she’s not even that shocked by it.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, gripping the edge of the bar.

Raven grins at her and throws her arms up with an exaggerated sigh.

“ _Finally_.”

***

The next day, Clarke can’t take her eyes off Lexa.

They’re sitting side-by-side on the floor between the shelves on their lunch break. Lexa’s reading -- her fifth book this month, Clarke thinks -- and Clarke’s attempting to draw, but it’s difficult since she pauses every two minutes to glance at Lexa’s face.

She wonders if Lexa knows she loves her.

Lexa twitches her nose and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and for a second Clarke thinks she’s going to say it -- just blurt it out -- and her heart hammers in her chest at the thought.

She’s not scared, exactly, and she’s not really worried if Lexa will say it back. Well, she _is_ , but that’s all secondary because she just wants Lexa to _know_.

Clarke thinks of Lexa’s face when she apologized for the things she said the night Clarke walked her home when she was drunk, and she doesn’t want Lexa to feel like that ever again -- that her feelings are unrequited, even a little bit.

The next time Clarke glances over at Lexa she has this little smile on her lips, eyes crinkling with happiness, and she eagerly flips the page of her book. It’s such a simple thing but suddenly it’s all too much, and Clarke scoots across the aisle and sits against the opposite stack.

Lexa glances up at her with a stitch between her brows, but when Clarke rests her calf on one of Lexa’s outstretched legs she smiles and turns back to her book. After watching her for another minute, mind buzzing with the headiness of love, Clarke tears a fresh sheet of paper out of her sketchbook and starts to draw.

She starts with Lexa’s eyes, because that’s Clarke’s favorite part of her; they’re wide and expressive and guarded and -- underneath it all -- so kind.

Whenever Clarke wants to know how Lexa’s feeling, her eyes say it all. And she knows not everyone can read her like that -- that some find Lexa cold and impassive -- so the fact that Clarke has honed this insight into Lexa’s emotions makes her feel special and proud.

Next she sketches the shape of Lexa’s face and then her body, long legs stretched out before her with the book splayed on her lap.

She even draws her own leg hooked over Lexa’s ankle.

Clarke’s hands move quickly, sketching and shading and smudging, and she can’t remember the last time creativity flowed from her like this.

She feels weightless.

Before she knows it the alarm is going off on Lexa’s phone. Lexa shuts it off with a pout before closing her eyes and stretching, groaning as she reaches her arms up toward the ceiling.

Clarke doesn’t even try to close her gaping mouth when Lexa opens her eyes and looks at her. She smirks and presses her lips together, starting to gather her things.

“That’s the longest I’ve ever seen you draw,” she says, carefully, like she’s handling something delicate. “Can I see?”

“I… Um…” Clarke stammers, caught off-guard. Lexa had seemed so absorbed in her book that Clarke didn’t think she’d registered what she was up to. She wonders if it’s possible Lexa is just as in-tune to her as Clarke is to Lexa.

She glances down at her drawing and it hits her that her feelings are so, _so_ obvious -- there’s love laced in every charcoal line. Without thinking, she tucks it away inside the pages of the sketchbook.

“Sorry,” she says, shrugging as she stands. “It’s not finished.”

Lexa smiles and nods but there’s hurt in her eyes and, _shit_ , that’s the last thing Clarke wanted. She steps forward and tugs on Lexa’s wrist until they’re standing toe-to-toe and their noses are nearly touching.

“We’re going to be late,” Lexa says, but she doesn’t move away. Her breath is hot against Clarke’s cheek and Clarke staves off a shudder.

“I can tell when you’re reading a funny part of your book because you get this sweet, little smile on your face,” she whispers.

Lexa huffs out a quiet laugh and Clarke feels her arms wind around her waist.

“When you don’t get enough sleep you blink extra slowly and you get this lazy, lopsided grin, like you’re too tired to smile with both sides of your face,” Clarke continues, the words whooshing out of her, easy and breathless. “The other day when you missed a button on your blouse I almost didn’t tell you because you’re always so buttoned up -- literally -- and that tiny imperfection made you look so damn adorable. Sometimes, when I kiss you, you let out this soft, shaky sigh and it makes my breath catch in my throat. I started recording that nerdy documentary series you love in case you miss an episode, since you don’t have DVR. I still get butterflies every time I see you.”

Lexa takes in a shaky breath and Clarke slides her hands up her arms, over her shoulders, and along her neck, until she’s cupping Lexa’s face. She presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, and by the time her lips hover over Lexa’s all she can hear is her pulse thrumming in her ears.

“Clarke,” Lexa starts, and her voice is thin and full all at once. “Clarke, I--”

Clarke feels her shake her head before Lexa leans in and kisses her, hard. Lexa makes a frustrated sound, like that wasn’t what she meant to do, but then she tilts her hips against her and Clarke’s stomach bottoms out.

Her fingers find their way into Lexa’s hair, tugging and angling her head to the side so she can kiss her more deeply. A moan catches in Lexa’s throat as she opens her mouth to Clarke, and before Clarke get ahold of herself she blindly walks Lexa backwards until she bumps against the towering shelves.

She works her knee between Lexa’s thighs and bites on her bottom lip when she gasps. Things have already gone too far for a public space -- let alone their place of _work_ \-- but Clarke can’t stop herself from rocking forward, pressing her thigh against Lexa’s core until she muffles a moan into her shoulder.

_Fuck_.

Mustering her strength, Clarke starts to pull away with a sheepish look on her face, expecting a joking reprimand for being all sorts of unprofessional. But Lexa just looks at her with glossy eyes and swollen lips and leans forward to capture her mouth one more time.

***

When Clarke finally clocks back in Raven takes one look at her and just shakes her head.

***

Clarke hates being alone in the bookstore this late.

She stayed after hours to do inventory for Raven to make up for her extended lunch break, and she’s tired and grumpy and feels all grimy from sorting through dusty boxes in the stockroom.

By the time she’s locking up the front door she’s utterly exhausted. She’s contemplating the merits of taking a soak in her apartment’s tiny tub when she hears the flutter of paper swooshing through the air and then feels something pointy bump against the side of her head.

“The hell?”

She looks down to find a paper airplane resting at her feet, its tip bent from the collision with her skull. Someone snickers off to her left and Clarke grins even before she sees her.

Lexa’s leaning against the side of the building with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face, teeth digging nervously into her bottom lip. Clarke smiles back -- her sullen mood already forgotten -- and starts walking over to her when Lexa holds up a hand to stop her.

“Wait,” she says, pushing off the building to stand up straight. “Open it, first.”

Clarke blinks, confused for a moment before she remembers the paper airplane on the ground. She picks it up, and as she unfolds the neatly crisped paper the butterflies are back in her stomach.

It’s probably because she’s so tired, but her eyes start to sting when she reads what Lexa’s written inside.

“ _Will you go on a date with me? Check Yes or No._ ”

When she looks at Lexa’s again, she’s holding a sharpie out for her, and Clarke thinks there’s a tremor in her hand. She takes it, leaning in to land a cheeky kiss on Lexa’s lips, before she slips the airplane into her back pocket and grabs ahold of Lexa’s arm.

Lexa’s writing is neat and orderly, but Clarke’s is bold and sharp and nearly takes up Lexa’s whole forearm. When she turns her arm to read Clarke’s response Lexa laughs, and keeps laughing, and Clarke pulls her into a hug and starts laughing right along with her.

They should have allowed time for the ink to dry, because when Clarke gets home the mirror image of her “HELL YES ♡” is stamped on the back of her shirt.

She takes a photo and texts it to Lexa, feeling like she might burst with the giddiness of it. Lexa texts her back a pic of the writing on her arm, the ink bleeding and smudged, but to Clarke everything is so perfectly clear.

She rummages in her backpack until she finds her sketchbook, and carefully takes out the drawing of Lexa on the bookstore floor. After she finally locates a stick of charcoal, she jots a few words along the bottom of the page.

Clarke falls asleep fully clothed with the drawing on her lap and a lovesick smile on her lips.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa takes Clarke on a date. There are sundresses and too many flowers and a gross amount of fluff.
> 
> I know I say this /literally/ every time but... one more chapter!!

Suddenly, Clarke can’t stop drawing.

Expressing her feelings for Lexa through charcoal and paper was a watershed moment, and now she’s absolutely brimming with inspiration. Sometimes it’s too overwhelming to face the whole of her emotions, so she hones in on the details. Soon her sketchbook is filled with Lexa in pieces -- wisps of hair tucked behind a tiny ear, an undone button on a crisp work shirt, the soft creases that form beside her eyes when she smiles.

Before long, her fingers itch to draw even when Lexa isn’t there. On those nights, she covers the pages in sweeping landscapes -- sun-bleached prairies and chain-link neighborhoods and the expanse of a starlit sea.

Clarke’s sitting in bed, shading long shadows beneath a streetlight, when her mom calls.

She flinches when her phone starts to buzz, even though she was expecting it. Abby Griffin, ever the precise surgeon, is punctual; she’s called her daughter every Thursday at 9 p.m. since her dad died. Even after everything -- their worst and last fight, all grief-stricken anger and white-hot words -- she continued to call.

And Clarke never picks up. (She’ll call back tomorrow, she tells herself. Tomorrow, always tomorrow.)

The phone vibrates next to Clarke on the quilt, one of the few nice things in her apartment. Gram -- her dad’s mom -- had given it to her mom at her wedding shower, and the day Clarke was born it became hers.

She runs her finger over the fading squares of fabric, remembering the blanket forts and thunderstorms and movie nights the quilt had seen. There are moments out of context, too -- tiny slivers of time; her dad wrapping it around her shoulders and enveloping her in a tight bear hug, her mom tucking her in at night, pulling the quilt up to her chin and giving her eskimo kisses.

These are the kinds of thoughts Clarke works so hard to block out, the ones that keep her up at night because she knows they’re waiting for her in her dreams. But tonight, for some reason, they don’t make her chest ache.

She thinks of Lexa, so far from home with no mom to call her. She thinks of her quiet strength, the lift of her chin, the careful, guarded look in her eyes. She thinks of Lexa on the bow of the boat, gripping the railings as the briny wind ruffles her hair, telling her that she once thought love was weakness.

Telling her the universe had other plans.

The phone stops ringing and, for the first time, Clarke doesn’t feel relieved.

She picks it up, smiling at the lockscreen photo of Lexa sipping a Clarke Griffin-crafted latte, when the phone starts buzzing again. This happens sometimes, when her mom is feeling optimistic.

Clarke hasn’t had the heart to change her mom’s caller ID photo. She’s standing on the deck of their little sailboat holding a shiny, squirming fish -- the first catch of the season. Her dad isn’t in the shot, except for his hand, mid-squeeze on Abby’s shoulder. He was so proud of her.

Clarke takes a shuddering breath and presses the palms of her hands against her eyes.

Then she answers the phone.

***

“Ooh Clarke, come check these out!”

Clarke looks over her shoulder and wrinkles her nose. “What are those?”

Raven scoffs and places an incredulous hand on her hip. “ _Peonies_.”

“You say that like I should have known.”

“Uh, Griff, you drew like a million still lifes of flowers in college.”

“Whatever.” Clarke huffs and turns back to the rows flowers in front of her. “Just because I drew them doesn’t mean I memorized their genus and species.” She runs a hand through her hair and offers an apologetic smile when Raven comes to stand next to her. “Sorry.”

“I’ll let it slide. This time.” Raven nudges Clarke’s ribs with her elbow. “Though I don’t get why you’re so on edge -- you said your first date went really well, and anyone with eyes can tell this girl is super into you. Just pick a bouquet -- I guarantee she’ll love any flowers you get her.”

“It’s not that easy,” Clarke says, moving to study the potted plants. “I want her to know that I put a lot of thought into what I choose.”

“I think that’s a given. Besides, if she has any doubts I’ll attest that we’ve been in at this particular florist for the past...” Raven checks her phone, “43 minutes. Not to mention the other two shops that didn’t have the ‘right vibe,’ whatever that means.”

Clarke sighs. “Ravennn.”

“Sorry, sorry. Okay, flower decision lightning round. Ready?”

“This won’t help, but sure. Ready.”

“Roses?”

“Too cliche.”

“Lilies?”

“Reminds me of funerals.”

“Tulips.”

“Aren’t those for, like, mother’s day?”

“Oh I know!” Raven smirks. “Remember when we were in elementary school and they had us put white carnations into water dyed with food coloring, and it stained their petals? You can do that! Flowers with your own personal touch.”

“Uhh, what?” Clarke gapes at her. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Uhh, no.” Raven sighs and shakes head. “That was, what they call in the business, a joke. Ya know, the kind you used to laugh at?”

“Hah, right. Good one, Rae.”

“Honestly, what is up with y-- Wait.” Raven crosses her arms and looks at Clarke with a narrowed gaze. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner. You’re going to tell her tonight!”

“What?”

“Hey, don’t get all coy on me, Princess. I know you know what. You’re blushing.” Raven grins at Clarke as she glares at her and covers her cheeks with her hands. “Fine, you’re gonna make me say it? You’re planing on telling Lexa you love her.”

“Shh!” Clarke hisses, glancing around.

“Oh please, there's no one in there but us and the elderly proprietor, and she went in the back room 20 minutes ago when it became clear that you weren’t gonna make a decision anytime soon.”

“Well, still,” Clarke says, relaxing a little. “You can’t just go blurting that out willy nilly. And I’m not planning on telling her anything -- that’d be too cheesy. It’ll happen when it happens, it’s just…”

Raven puts her arm around Clarke’s shoulder. “Just what?”

“I…” Clarke swallows, feeling butterflies in her stomach at the mere thought. “It’s just, I want to tell her all the time. And I’m afraid I’ll just blurt it out. At the wrong time.”

“Oh boy.” Raven laughs and pulls Clarke in closer. “You’ve got it _bad_. Like really bad. The baddest.”

“I know.” Clarke laughs and pushes away from her friend. “Shut up.”

“Just chill, Griff. Stop thinking about the right time or the wrong time -- just tell her when you feel it. And then get ready to catch her, because she practically swoons every time you say her name -- if you confess your undying love for her she might just pass out cold.”

“Arrrg, you’re the worst!” Clarke groans and lunges forward, reaching for the tickle spot on the side of Raven’s neck.

Raven shrieks and hides behind a towering sunflower, when someone clears their throat behind them, and they both spin around. The florist is standing there, holding a freshly made bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in paper and tied together with a ribbon.

She extends the bundle to Clarke and she takes it without thinking, admiring the orange, pink, and yellow hues.

“For your girl,” the woman says simply. “I think she’ll like these.”

“Yes,” Clarke says, smiling so wide her face hurts. “I think you’re right.”

***

Clarke can’t stop fidgeting once she finally works up the nerve to ring Lexa’s doorbell.

Lexa hasn’t told her where they’re going -- only that it’s nothing too fancy and they’ll take the subway line near her house.

It’s warm out today, so Clarke decided to wear a flowing maxi dress with strappy, gold sandals she borrowed from Raven. She was feeling pretty damn cute when she left the apartment, but as soon as she turned the corner to Lexa’s house the self doubt began to seep in. She’s probably overdressed, or worse, looks like she’s trying too hard.

The clasp on her necklace -- gold chain with a tiny shooting star that her dad gave her three birthdays ago -- has slipped around to the side of her neck. She slides it back into place and takes a deep breath.

She’s about to knock when the door swings open. A black woman with short hair and hard eyes appraises her, and though they’re about the same height Clarke feels very small under her gaze.

“Hi, you must be Indra.” Clarke forces a cheery smile and holds out her hand. “I’m Clarke.” Indra looks at Clarke’s outstretched hand and then at the bundle of flowers under her arm, but she otherwise doesn’t move. “I’m, um, here for Lexa? Is she--”

“Indra!” Lexa’s voice is even and stern and it cuts through Clarke’s stammering. “Let her pass.”

Indra smirks and Clarke is pretty sure she winks at her as she finally shakes her hand.

“I was just testing her,” Indra says over her shoulder, squeezing Clarke’s hand in a vice grip. “Your mom would want me to make sure she’s worthy of you, _heda_.”

Lexa mutters something that sounds something like “shof op” and Indra laughs as she finally steps back to let Clarke in. Clarke finds Lexa’s eyes immediately, grinning as all of her nerves dissipate. Lexa’s in a patterned sundress and gray Chuck Taylors, but she still manages to look regal, shoulders squared and hands behind her back.

“Hey,” Clarke says, stepping closer. She holds out the bouquet of flowers. “These are for you.”

Lexa looks a little startled, glancing down at the flowers like she hadn’t even noticed them, and a flush fills her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she says. “They’re beautiful.”

She doesn’t take them, though, so Clarke finds herself awkwardly holding out her hand for the second time in as many minutes. Panic starts to set in, that maybe Lexa’s allergic to pollen or perhaps wildflowers remind her of funerals like lilies do for Clarke.

But then Lexa removes her hands from behind her back, revealing a bright fistfull of flowers tied with twine.

“And these are for you,” Lexa says, biting her lip. “They’re just from the little garden we have out back.” She shrugs. “It’s not much, but I thought you’d like them.”

“I love them.” Clarke steps closer and cups Lexa’s cheek, brushing her thumb over her skin. “Thank you.”

They exchange bouquets and Lexa looks at hers with wide eyes, like she can’t believe someone would do this for her, and Clarke admires the carefully arranged flowers in her hands and she thinks she feels the same way.

She can’t believe she had been nervous about today. Being with Lexa comes easy.

Indra coughs, and when Clarke looks over at her she just catches the end of an eye-roll. “Why don’t you two give those to me,” she says. “I’ll put them in water so you can get going.”

Once they’re both flower-free, Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and tugs her out the door. They run down the steps and through the chain-link gate and Clarke fights off the urge to tell Lexa she loves her.

“Heda?” Clarke asks instead once they slow to a walk, smiling at her with her tongue caught between her teeth.

“A pet name.” Lexa grins and looks down like she’s embarrassed. “My mom coined it. She said even when I was little I was the head of the house. I think I was just bossy.”

The sun is behind them, casting their shadows on the sidewalk, and Clarke swings their joined hands between them and she feels so light.

”I’d give anything to have seen you back then,” she says. “I’m imagining you on horseback with a string of rabbit carcuses over one shoulder, braids flying behind you in the wind with war paint smeared around your eyes.”

”You have _quite_ the imagination, Clarke,” Lexa says, but her left eyebrow lifts a little, and Clarke figures she’s not too far off.

***

Clarke guesses where they’re going as soon as Lexa tells her which stop they’re getting off at.

“You’ve been before, haven’t you?” Lexa asks, shoulders slumping.

“I haven’t, actually.” Clarke grins as Lexa’s eyes light up, and slides her hand down the pole they’re both sharing until their fingers touch. “Fine art professors are snobby -- they found this collection to _eclectic_ , and I never got around to coming here on my own.”

“Well I’m glad to be the one to show it to you.” Lexa smiles and leans in close as the train approaches an incline. Soon they’re rambling along above ground and squinting from the sudden sunlight. “I hoped you hadn’t been before, but even if you had, it’s the kind of place you can visit a thousand times and always discover something new.”

The train screeches to a halt and Clarke puts a hand on Lexa’s hip to steady herself. Normally she hates losing her balance on the train -- she scoffs at teetering tourists -- but her touch makes the skin below Lexa’s collarbones turn pink, so this time she doesn’t really mind. She gives her a squeeze before letting go.

“So you’ve been before, I take it.”

Lexa blinks slowly, as if collecting herself, then nods. “I initially went because I read they have some of George Washington’s letters. And because admission is free on Fridays if you wear the city baseball team’s jersey.”

“What, really?”

“Really.” Lexa beams, and Clarke loves her like this -- all bright and eager. “It’s mandated by the original owner’s will -- she was a big hometown sports fan. You see, before it was a museum it was her house -- a mansion, really -- and everything inside -- the paintings, the furniture, the historic artifacts -- were part of her private collection.”

“That’s so cool,” Clarke says. “And, hey, today is Friday.”

“Yes, coincidentally.” Lexa smiles sheepishly. “Don’t worry, I actually bought tickets.”

“Aww, you didn’t have to. We could’ve thrown jerseys on over our dresses. That’d be kinda adorable.”

Lexa laughs and plays with one of Clarke’s bracelets, keeping her eyes cast down. “If you were any more adorable I don’t think I could stand it,” she murmurs.

The car they’re on is crowded and hot and the man standing next to Clarke has a massive backpack slung over one shoulder, and it keeps knocking against her side. A baby is crying a few seats down, and at the end of the car a group of teenagers are blasting tinny rap music from a phone.

And amidst it all, Clarke wants to tell Lexa she loves her.

But before the words can inch their way up her throat, they reach their stop. Clarke takes Lexa’s hand as they leave the station and walk down winding, tree-lined streets. Lexa’s a fountain of information about the museum and her excitement is so infectious that Clarke is practically bouncing along the pavement.

When the museum finally comes into view Clarke pulls on Lexa’s hand and they’re running the rest of the way, startling the ticket takers once they sprint inside.

Despite it being free admission Friday, the museum is surprisingly empty. At first it just looks like any old building, but Lexa guides them around the corner and soon they’re in a cavernous atrium, filled with tropical plants that stretch up to the glass cathedral ceiling.

Clarke knows she’s gaping but she doesn’t even care. She drops Lexa’s hand and walks to the paving stones in the center of the garden, next to the fountain, and takes a slow 360-degree turn.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “It’s so gorgeous. Damn, I wish I had my sketchbook.”

Lexa smirks and blushes a little as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a small notebook and a new package of colored pencils.

“I had a feeling you might say that.”

“God, Lexa.” Clarke shakes her head, completely lost for words, and wraps Lexa in a tight hug. She nuzzles her nose against her neck and tries to grapple with the enormity of this feeling; tries to not let the words slip out. “Lexa, you’re-- you’re too much. Too amazing.”

Clarke leans back a little and Lexa shrugs. “They’re just pencils,” she says.

Clarke rolls her eyes as she leans in to kiss her, slow and gentle, because it’s so much more.

***

They wind up settling on a stone bench so Clarke can outline a few sketches of the atrium. She gets hung up on one of the statues -- Grecian, Lexa thinks -- so they move to another bench so she can capture it from a different angle. Lexa rests her head on her shoulder and Clarke glances down, worried that she’s bored her, but she finds Lexa’s eyes intent on the notepad in her lap.

“Why did you stop?”

Lexa looks up at her with a little frown on her lips and Clarke can’t help but kiss her between her eyebrows. The gesture elicits a contented hum from Lexa, and Clarke’s pulse speeds up.

“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep.”

“No, that’s only on workdays.” Lexa laughs, and Clarke can feel the vibration against her ribs. “And you’ve never let me see what you’ve drawn before. I’m soaking it all in. You’re really talented, Clarke.”

“Rusty is what I am,” Clarke says, swallowing against the nervous jolt in her stomach. She wants to tell Lexa that’s because all of her other drawings are of her, that if it wasn’t for her there’d be no drawings at all. But those words, too, get stuck in her throat.

(Later. She’ll tell her later.)

Once Clarke’s hand grows tired she and Lexa wander further into the old mansion. Even the staircases are majestic -- wooden banisters, hand-carved and delicate -- and they take the steps two at a time.

When they walk into the first room Clarke doesn’t know where to look. The walls are covered in antique wallpaper, rich shades of auburn and turquoise and lemon yellow, and in some places you can hardly see it for all of the paintings. The walls are littered with them -- along with tapestries and ancient silks -- and Clarke’s buzzing with the gluttony of it.

Lexa stands quietly beside her, twining their fingers together as she watches Clarke bask in all the treasures.

After a few minutes of taking in what’s there, Clarke notices something that isn’t.

“Why is the largest frame empty?”

As soon as she asks she feels like she knew this, once -- that they taught it in freshman Art History -- but she keeps it to herself. Because Lexa draws herself up, practically glowing with delight, and Clarke wants to hear her tell it.

“They were stolen,” Lexa says, in a hushed voice that makes goosebumps rise on Clarke’s arms. “About 25 years ago a couple of robbers dressed up as police officers and walked out with hundreds of millions worth of paintings -- Rembrandts and Degas and Manets. They still haven’t found them.”

“That’s horrible.” Clarke takes a breath to steady her outrage. “How could people do something like that? Take precious things meant for everyone to enjoy and hide them away for decades.”

“I don’t know,” Lexa says. “It’s awful.”

“I wonder why the museum left the frames up. They’re just a reminder that something’s missing.”

“That’s what I love about it -- the defiance.” Lexa walks them closer to the frame. There’s a small piece of paper pinned to the wall -- where the canvas should be -- with the name of the painting, the artist, and the date it was stolen. “It’s like they’re saying, you can take the best parts of us but it doesn’t diminish the whole. Even with the empty frames, this place is still so beautiful.”

Clarke holds Lexas gaze for a long moment before leaning in to kiss her shoulder. She has a way with words, her little shelf-stacker, and these ones hit particularly close to home.

“Like us,” she says, quietly. “We have empty frames, too.”

Lexa nods and her grip on Clarke’s hand gets tighter. She opens her mouth to say something, but quickly closes it, throat working as she swallows. Clarke thinks it’s for the best -- it doesn’t do to speak in metaphors. But she hopes Lexa knows she’s still beautiful, too, empty frames and all.

“The police recently got a new lead,” Lexa says, after a moment. “It was in the paper last week. So there’s hope.”

“That’s good,” Clarke says. She brings Lexa’s hand up to her mouth, dusts her lips across her knuckles. “Hope is good.”

***

They take their time roaming the other rooms on the floor, with Lexa playing the role of tour guide. It soon becomes obvious that Lexa’s favorite exhibits are the antique display cases with glass tops that are covered in fabric, to keep out the light. Each time they come upon a new case Lexa lifts the cloth like she’s opening a gift, careful but rushed, like she can’t wait to see what’s inside.

It’s never what Clarke expects -- each case is like a time capsule, with yellowing manuscripts and postcards and symphony scores written by people she learned about in school. When they get to Lexa’s favorite case -- the one with George Washington’s fading letters -- she smiles down at the glass like she’s seeing an old friend.

“What do they say?” Clarke asks as she peers at the cramped script. “I can’t make it out.”

“Nothing important, really,” Lexa says. “His letters discussing the revolution and the formation of a new government are in larger museums. But I love these anyway. It’s cool to see his handwriting, you know? Makes you realize he was an actual person, with mundane problems and flowery penmanship.”

Clarke snickers and wraps her arm around Lexa’s waist. “You would find a kindred spirit in the first Commander in Chief,” she says.

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

“You have this innate ability to inspire respect. I’ve seen you in action at work -- everyone looks to you for guidance, _including_ the managers.”

A light blush spreads across Lexa’s cheeks, and she focuses on the letters. “It’s work.” She shrugs. “I just do what I have to do.”

“Nah, I think your mom was on to something with _heda_. Or like, Commander Lexa.” Clarke chuckles to herself. “I’m totally calling you that from now on.”

Lexa looks like she’s trying to narrow her eyes, but she can’t for her smile. “Don’t you dare.”

***

Once they’ve seen their fill, Lexa takes Clarke to the museum cafe for tea and finger sandwiches, which are adorable and dainty. They eat them with their pinkies out, giggling around mouthfuls of bread.

“Maybe one day I’ll be so lucky to work in a fancy cafe like this one,” Clarke says when they’re done.

Lexa rolls her eyes. “Like you’re going to work in a cafe all your life.”

“Why not?” Clarke bristles a little. It’s something she hears a lot, from her college classmates and her mom, before they stopped speaking.

“You should do something that makes you happy,” Lexa says. She reaches across for Clarke’s hand and runs her fingers over the fading burn scar on her arm. “And I get the feeling making lattes isn’t your calling.”

Clarke smiles at that and links their fingers together. “Fair enough,” she says. “What about you? Are you going to work in a bookstore all your life?”

“No. I started looking into research library internships not too long ago, in fact.”

“Oh?” Clarke takes a slow breath. The mere thought of not seeing Lexa at work everyday makes her queasy, but she tries not to let on. Lexa should have everything she wants, even if it means spending less time with her. “You’d be great at something like that,” she says, smiling. “Why didn’t you go for it?”

“It turned out they were unpaid.” Lexa bites her bottom lip and looks down at the crumbs on her plate before meeting Clarke’s eyes. “That, and one day I nearly tripped over someone on the way to lunch, and suddenly going to work wasn’t so bad.”

Clarke blushes, and she presses her lips together to keep her smile under control, but based on how Lexa's looking at her she has a feeling it doesn't help. She rubs her thumb over the inside of Lexa’s wrist to distract herself.

“Oh, you don’t say,” she drawls. “That’s funny, because the same thing basically happened to me.”

They’re both grinning at each other like idiots, but Clarke can’t find it in herself to care.

The corners of Lexa's eyes crinkle when she laughs, and her whole face lights up. “What a coincidence,” she says.

***

(For the millionth time that day, Clarke wants to tell her.)

(But she’s not ready.)

(Not yet.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and Lexa's date winds down (or winds up, depending on how you look at it...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okayyy this is (mostly) a wrap! I'm planning on writing a little epilogue based in the future, but that probably won't be a full chapter-length. Just to manage your expectations. :)
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think! Also, note the rating change. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

After they’ve had their fill of tea and culture, Clarke decides to keep the classiness of Lexa’s date going by taking them to her favorite wine bar. It’s still nice out, so they sit on the back patio with their ankles linked beneath the table, sipping cheap rosé as the sun sets.

The patio is filling up and there’s a murmur of chatter all around them, but for now they’re happy to sit in contented silence, letting the pink wine warm their insides. A chorus of _oohs_ alerts Clarke to the fact that the fairy lights have been switched on -- white and twinkling and winding up the trees, dangling from the branches overhead.

But mostly she sees them in Lexa’s eyes, watches their glow get closer as she leans forward and puts her glass down. Lexa rests both her elbows on the table for a moment, head tilting as her gaze drifts down to Clarke’s lips and lower still. Then she’s reaching out, the pads of her fingers brushing Clarke’s collarbone before they trace the contours of her necklace.

“This is beautiful,” she says. “I haven’t seen it before.”

A flash of heat courses through Clarke and she swallows, throat working under Lexa’s touch. From the look on Lexa’s face Clarke _knows_ that she felt it -- that she knows what it means -- but her hand lingers, touching the star’s top point beneath her clavicle.

Goosebumps are starting to form on Clarke’s skin when Lexa meets her gaze again. This time, her eyes are dark.

“My dad gave it to me,” Clarke says, surprised at how low her voice sounds. “I’ve been thinking about him a lot this week. Well, I always think about him a lot, but even more than usual.”

Lexa smiles, almost apologetically, and drops her hand back down to the table, like she was touching something she shouldn’t. Clarke grabs her wrist before she can put her hand back in her lap.

She wants to tell her that it’s okay -- that she wants to share all the parts of her, even those that are sharp and jagged. Instead, she runs her thumb over the bone of Lexa’s wrist until she relaxes and turns her hand over, palm up and waiting for Clarke’s fingers.

“The smallest things remind me of my mom.” Lexa smiles as Clarke links their hands together. “I’ll walk past her favorite shampoo in the convenience store, or hear this horrible, old country song she loved on the radio. It stays with me for days.”

Clarke finishes off her wine and brushes her thumb over Lexa’s knuckles, a little breathless from the gentleness of her implied question -- one that asks nothing of her, but she wants to answer anyway.

“My mom called,” she says.

Lexa nods, a small crease forming between her brows. “Same day as usual?”

“Yes.” Clarke takes a deep breath. “And this time I answered.”

Lexa’s eyes widen slightly and she squeezes Clarke’s hand -- because she knows what a big deal this is, she’s been there a few times when Abby’s calls have gone unanswered -- and it’s like the significance of this step toward reconciliation hadn’t completely hit Clarke until right now.

She brings her other hand to rest on the table and Lexa takes it, clutching both of her hands and leaning forward in a way that draws Clarke in, until their foreheads are practically touching.

“How do you feel?” Lexa whispers.

Clarke huffs out a little incredulous laugh, and it’s awkward with the table between them but she presses closer to kiss the corner of Lexa’s mouth. Because there are a million questions she could’ve asked -- how the call went, if she and her mom fought, if her mom was happy or relieved or mad. But, of course, Lexa doesn’t care about any of that.

“Vulnerable, I guess,” Clarke says when she sits back down. “But good. We didn’t talk for long -- I think we were both so surprised I answered that we didn’t know where to start.”

“Just answering was a start.” Lexa says, soft and earnest, and Clarke thinks her eyes are a little wet. “And a brave one, at that.”

“Hah, well I don’t know.” Clarke shrugs. “But we made plans to try again next week. And she said she’d like to get lunch in a few weeks and I think… I think I might be ready for that.”

Lexa lets one of Clarke’s hands go so she can cup her cheek. Clarke leans into her hand, then turns her head and kisses Lexa’s palm.

“That’s great. I’m really happy for you, Clarke. And proud -- I know that can’t have been easy.”

Clarke wants to tell Lexa that her strength has bolstered her -- steadied her. She wants to tell her that, if it weren’t for Lexa she might have never picked up that call. She wants to tell her…

“Thank you.” Clarke smiles and pulls away, running her fingers beneath her eyes to make sure her makeup hasn’t smudged. “Now finish your drink and I’ll walk you home.”

***

They’re nowhere near Lexa’s house when it begins to rain.

It starts with a spray of warm mist, rolling in from the ocean, that quickly gives way to big, fat drops. Lexa zips up her bag -- no doubt to keep the notebook with Clarke’s sketches safe and dry -- before spreading her arms wide and tilting her face up at the stormy sky.

It seems that the rain has surprised everyone. There are shrieks coming from down the street, where people who were dining at sidewalk tables scramble inside the restaurants for cover. Cars whoosh by, careening through puddles and spraying Clarke and Lexa’s ankles with murky water.

Any other day, Clarke would be running for cover, too. But not tonight.

Tonight, there are raindrops sliding down Lexa’s nose, pooling in her upturned palms, gathering beneath her feet. Her dress is absolutely drenched, clinging to every slight curve, and Clarke only had one glass of wine but she feels something close to drunk.

Then Lexa’s laughing, eyes closed and spinning in a slow circle, and Clarke knows she’s not in the city anymore. She’s home -- _really_ home -- where the wild grass is bending in the breeze, tickling her shins, and the air is rich with the wet earth.

Once she completes her circle Lexa drops her arms and opens her eyes. She holds her hands out to Clarke, like she just has to share this with her. Her mascara is running, staining her cheeks with dipping black streaks, and when Clarke takes her hands a shiver run through her.

“Don’t you love the rain?” Lexa asks, her face bright with a Christmas-morning smile.

“Yes,” Clarke says. She grips Lexa’s hands and pulls her in until their bodies are pressed together. That’s when she realizes she’s equally soaked -- that her makeup is probably a mess, too -- but Lexa’s looking at her like she’s never seen anyone so beautiful. “Yes. I do.”

Clarke can feel Lexa’s smile against her lips when she kisses her. She pulls back a bit to huff out a quiet laugh before curling her arms around Lexa’s waist and leaning back in.

Lexa’s dress feels so thin beneath her fingers, and when Clarke grips the fabric in her hands water dribbles out between her knuckles. Lexa gasps into her mouth and grabs a bunch of Clarke’s hair, causing a rivulet to run down Clarke’s spine, making her shiver.

The puddles must be getting bigger, because the next time a car speeds by a wall of water hits their sides, but they’re so wrapped up in each other they hardly notice. Lexa slides her fingers over Clarke’s shoulders and around to the nape of her neck. She changes the angle of the kiss, dragging her tongue across Clarke’s bottom lip, and Clarke breathes out a shaky sigh.

Goosebumps are covering every inch of her skin, but Clarke’s body feels so hot. Lexa is everywhere but it’s not enough -- she needs _more_ of her -- and when Lexa’s nails dig into her neck she thinks she’s not alone in that.

A wolf whistle sounds from across the street, followed by the unmistakable laughter of teenage boys, and they finally break apart. They hold each other at arm’s length, like they don’t trust themselves not to continue, but they can’t bring themselves to let go just yet.

Clarke’s panting -- properly panting like she’s running late to work -- and Lexa looks like she’s struggling to catch her breath, too. Her hair is dark, hanging in ringlets beside her face, and her lips are parted and wet. She looks desperate and dazed, blinking slowly like she’s trying to piece reality together.

Lexa licks her lips just as her eyes fall to Clarke’s mouth, and it’s ridiculous because it’s _just_ a look, but Clarke’s suddenly aware of the warmth pooling between her legs.

“Can we…” Lexa starts. She shakes her head, like she’s trying to remember English words. “Where can we go?”

There’s a row of bibles in the back of the bookstore, and Clarke would swear on every single one of them that she had every intention of delivering Lexa to her house at the end of the night. But now they’re sopping wet and Lexa’s _shivering_ \-- probably on the verge of catching a cold, or worse -- and the wine bar Clarke took them to just happened to be two and a half blocks from her apartment.

Clarke takes Lexa’s hand and starts pulling her down the sidewalk.

“This way.”

***

Their teeth are practically chattering by the time they reach Clarke’s apartment, so everything else she had been feeling is put on the back burner in favor of getting Lexa warm. Clarke guides her to her room, where she gives Lexa her favorite band t-shirt and comfiest pair of sweatpants.

After hesitating for a moment she hands her a pair of underwear -- because she knows _hers_ are soaked, mostly from the rain -- and she doesn’t want Lexa to have to go commando if she doesn’t want to.

“They’re clean,” she blurts, blushing as Lexa raises her brows. “I mean, I just figured… No pressure to wear them if you don’t want.”

Clarke grabs a shirt, leggings, and dry underwear for herself, then hurries to the bathroom to change while Lexa uses her room.

Something’s different, now that they’re here. Lexa’s quiet and Clarke feels shy -- something she’s not entirely used to. There’s a tremor in her hands as she peels the dress off her body, and she tells herself it’s from the cold.

Clarke’s worried she’s taken too long by the time she walks back into her room, but it appears Lexa hasn’t even finished dressing. She’s standing with her back to the door, looking down at Clarke’s desk.

Her dress is in a wet ball on the floor and she’s wearing Clarke’s shirt. It’s big on her, the hem falling around the tops of her thighs, which is lucky because her legs are bare. The sweatpants Clarke gave her are neatly folded on the desk chair, but she doesn’t see the underwear. She swallows thickly and for a moment all she can hear is the blood pulsing in her ears.

Clarke clears her throat and steps into the room, closing the door behind her. Lexa jumps -- like she’d forgotten anyone else was here -- and Clarke hears the flicker of paper.

_Oh_.

She knows exactly what Lexa was looking at, what distracted her so much she forgot to finish changing into warm, dry clothes. The first time Lexa tried to catch a glimpse of it Clarke had told her it wasn’t finished, and that was technically true. It still isn’t -- she works on it most days after she gets home from the bookstore, perfecting her shading, cleaning up her lines.

As she walks behind Lexa, still staring down at the drawing on the desk, Clarke can see her drawing so clearly; Lexa sitting on the floor in their sunny aisle, legs straight out in front of her with a book in her lap. The eight words Clarke had written at the bottom of the page.

_The first time I wanted to tell you._

Clarke feels like her stomach is in her throat when she reaches out to touch the small of Lexa’s back. Lexa sniffs and turns around and Clarke thinks it’s like an out of body experience, like this is all happening to someone else who is far luckier and deserving than her.

The mascara has dried under Lexa’s eyes, but now there are two fresh streams of tears sliding down her cheeks. Clarke cups her face and smoothes her thumbs over her skin, clearing up the makeup and brushing her tears away.

“I couldn’t draw all of the other times,” Clarke says, her voice cracking. “There weren’t enough hours in the day.”

Lexa squeezes her eyes shut, making a few fresh tears leak out, and when she meets Clarke’s gaze again she shakes her head like she just can’t believe it. Maybe she’s remembering that specific lunch break, when Clarke wound her arms around her waist and whispered all the ways she loves her. Maybe she’s remembering the words she started to say.

Lexa rests her forehead against Clarke’s and takes a steadying breath before kissing her. Her nose is wet where it presses against Clarke’s cheek, and Clarke kisses her back slowly, as gently as she can.

After a moment Lexa pulls back, but only a little. When she speaks Clarke can feel her mouth move against her lips.

“ _Baby_.” Lexa swallows back a sob, and Clarke can feel the quiver in her bottom lip. “I love you, too.”

***

As soon as Clarke and Lexa climb under Clarke’s duvet, they both stop shivering. They curl up together, Clarke sliding her ankle between Lexa’s bare legs and Lexa tucking her head under Clarke’s chin. Every time Clarke feels Lexa’s breath puff against her neck she gets a little warmer.

“Thank you for today,” Clarke says, mostly to distract herself as Lexa nuzzles into her. “I seriously loved every minute -- even getting caught in the rainstorm.”

Lexa laughs and Clarke can feel the happy vibrations rumble through her chest. “ _Especially_ getting caught in the rainstorm.”

A shiver runs through Lexa -- perhaps at the memory -- and Clarke rubs her hands in slow circles over her back. The movement makes Lexa’s t-shirt start to ride up, but she hums contentedly, so Clarke figures she doesn’t mind.

Lexa’s hands are on the move, too. Her fingers slip under Clarke’s shirt and skate up her side, tracing the contours of her ribs. Clarke closes her eyes and focuses on keeping her breathing steady, but it’s no use when Lexa flattens her palm on the small of her back and tilts Clarke’s hips against hers.

“Mm, Lex.”

“Shh…”

By now, Lexa’s shirt is halfway up her back and Clarke lets her fingers explore. She worms her way under her shirt until she’s touching the base of her neck, then trails her hand down over the notches of her spine.

She’s so focused on the shallow puffs of Lexa’s breath and all the things they’re doing to her that she forgets to stop her hand’s motion, and the next thing she knows her fingers hit the waistband of Lexa’s underwear.

They both gasp at that. Lexa lets out a little sound that’s something close to a whimper, and Clarke smooths her hand over her ass to get her to do it again. It works, Lexa’s nails digging into Clarke’s back, but then Clarke’s hand is resting on the warm, soft skin at the crease of Lexa’s thigh and her thoughts go kind of hazy.

She has no time to regroup, though, because Lexa’s pressing open-mouth kisses along the column of her neck, and when she reaches her clavicle she whispers a needy “ _Clarke_ ,” and that’s it, she’s done for.

Clarke rolls them over so Lexa’s on her back, and she gazes down at her for a moment before meeting her lips for a wet and messy kiss. She wedges her knee between Lexa’s thighs to give her some leverage as she slips her hand under her shirt again, up and up and up.

Tonight, the out of body experiences keep on coming. Clarke thought she would be nervous when it finally happened between them -- when she finally let the last of her defenses fall -- but there’s no room for nerves right now. All she can do is barrel forward and make Lexa _feel_ , make her gasp, learn every curve and response of her body.

It’s all surprisingly simple.

Lexa’s nipple is hard beneath Clarke’s hand once she reaches her breast, and when she squeezes it between her thumb and forefinger Lexa moans, her hips rising up off the mattress. Clarke does it again and rocks forward, pressing her knee against Lexa’s core, and even through the underwear she feels wetness on her thigh.

_Her_ underwear. Oh fuck.

“God, Clarke,” Lexa pants. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Clarke tries to laugh at this -- as if she had any intention of stopping -- but even that comes out as more of a moan. She grinds down on Lexa’s thigh in an attempt to ease the tension quickly coiling inside her, but it’s hard with her leggings in the way.

Lexa pouts when Clarke pulls away to yank her pants off, but then she stills, her mouth falling open, and Clarke decides to make a bit of a show of it. Once the leggings are deposited somewhere on her floor she grips the hem of her t-shirt with both hands and slowly peels the fabric up, rolling her hips forward as she goes.

She tosses the shirt over her shoulder and allows herself to take Lexa in with slow, hungry eyes, and the sight before her makes the ache between her legs even worse. Lexa’s still lying back on the pillows, flushed and panting, wearing only Clarke’s underwear and a t-shirt that’s pushed up to her collarbones.

The skin of Lexa’s neck is splotchy from Clarke’s lips and her nipples are hard from Clarke’s fingers and, shit, she’s so fucking beautiful.

Clarke wavers, feeling unsteady as Lexa sits up and tugs her own shirt off before gripping Clarke’s hips, looking up at her in awe. Clarke’s mentally congratulating herself for not putting on a bra when Lexa ducks her head and closes her mouth around one of her nipples, running her tongue over the hard bud before sucking gently. Clarke gasps and tangles her hand in Lexa’s hand, holding her to her.

“Lex, _fuck_. Feels so good.”

Lexa moves to her other breast and sort of noses at her nipple before giving it the same treatment, and Clarke’s fairly certain she’s never been so turned on before in her life. She settles in Lexa’s lap and tries to grind against her, but the friction isn’t right, isn’t _enough_.

When Lexa finally pulls away from her chest, Clarke can tell she isn’t faring much better. Her pupils are wide and dark and her cheeks are pink there’s a pained stitch between her eyebrows. Lexa’s halfway to desperate, and Clarke forgets all about her own need to get off in favor of getting her all the way there.

Clarke peppers Lexa’s face with soft kisses as she eases her back onto the mattress, making sure her head is resting on the pillows. Then she kisses a path down her neck while her hand glides down Lexa’s side, over her hip, and down to her knee.

She can feel the slight tremble in Lexa’s legs when she eases her thighs open enough to make room for her hand. Clarke sucks on Lexa’s pulsepoint as her fingers drift higher; light, delicate touches all the way up the inside of her thighs.

By the time she reaches their apex Lexa’s whimpering and gripping Clarke’s hips so hard she’ll probably find ten small bruises tomorrow. Lexa’s breaths are choppy and shallow, her pulse rushing beneath Clarke’s lips, and when Clarke presses her fingers against the sticky fabric between her legs she swears they both stop breathing.

Clarke is beyond pissed at herself that they hadn’t done this sooner. She’s uncomfortably wet herself, but now that she’s here she’s certainly going to take the opportunity to tease Lexa. She strokes her through her underwear, never quite touching where she wants, never giving enough pressure.

Lexa whining “Clarke, _please_ ” is all it takes for her to throw the duvet off the bed and inch her way down Lexa’s body, pressing kisses to her sternum, her ribs, her hip bones as she goes. It’s jarring to think that not long ago they were both huddled together, shaking from the cold. Now, as Clarke drag’s Lexa’s underwear down her legs, they’re both quaking from another feeling entirely.

Settling on her stomach between Lexa’s knees is another surreal moment, so Clarke grounds herself by kissing the inside of her thigh. She can already taste traces of her there, and, _fuck_ , she decides they’ve both been tormented enough.

When she finally licks along Lexa’s slit she feels her hand tangle in her hair and tug _hard_. She does it again and Lexa goans, hips shooting up off the bed seeking out more pressure, and Clarke’s practically grinding down on the mattress in search of some relief.

“Wait, wait,” Lexa pants. “Come here. Clarke. Need you. _Clarke_.”

Clarke can’t help but smirk as she wipes her mouth on her forearm -- pleased that she reduced her shelf-stacking book nerd to such short sentences -- and she crawls back up Lexa’s body.

“Hey,” she whispers, pecking her lips. “I’m here. You okay?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Lexa smiles, looking relieved and a little embarrassed. She shrugs one shoulder. “You were just too far.”

She kisses Clarke, slipping her tongue into her mouth and moaning at the taste she finds there. Clarke somehow manages to keep kissing her while she uses one hand to shimmy out of her underwear, and then she’s straddling Lexa’s leg.

“Well, we can fix that,” she says.

Clarke leans back to watch Lexa’s face as she pushes two fingers inside her. Lexa’s lips part and her eyes flutter, like they want to close, but she keeps her gaze trained on Clarke.

“Good?” Clarke asks, a little breathless because this is really happening, because Lexa is so warm and wet and _tight_ around her.

Lexa nods as Clarke pulls her fingers out slowly before pushing in again. “Good. Yeah, good.”

There are still traces of mascara beneath Lexa’s eyes, and Clarke can’t help but kiss her there as she sets up a slow pace. Soon Lexa’s moaning in earnest, clutching Carke’s shoulders and rotating her hips in an attempt to get her to speed up.

Clarke takes the hint, eventually, and shifts so that her pelvic bone is pressing against her own wrist. She adds another finger and uses the weight of her body rock into Lexa, to push in deeper, and it only takes a few strong thrusts for Lexa’s muscles to tense up in anticipation.

“Yes, there. _There there there_.”

Lexa’s practically babbling and the furrow in her brow is back and she’s clinging to Clarke’s shoulders like her life depends on it. Clarke grinds down on Lexa’s thigh and swears to herself, because Lexa hasn’t even really touched her and she’s already close.

When she looks up Lexa’s eyes are open -- lidded and pleading -- and she bends down to kiss her as she slides her fingers home again and presses her thumb against her clit. She’s not quite sure how Lexa does it, but she somehow manages to snake her hand between Clarke’s legs, two fingers teasing her entrance while Clarke grinds against the heel of her palm.

“ _Unh_ , Lexa. Oh fuck.”

It seems like hearing Clarke moaning her name is enough to tip Lexa over the edge, because an instant later she’s crying out and clenching around Clarke’s fingers. Her hold on Clarke’s shoulder tightens and her fingers between her legs push upward, sliding inside her, and Clarke stumbles into one of the strongest orgasms of her life.

When she comes back to herself she’s basically collapsed on top of Lexa, panting with her fingers still inside her, but Lexa’s just lying there with her eyes closed and a sleepy smile on her face, so Clarke guesses she isn’t suffocating her. Still, she rolls them over so that they’re on their sides and Lexa slips her hand from between Clarke’s legs and curls into her, draping her arm over her hip.

“Wow that was…” Clarke stammers, kissing Lexa’s temple. “You were… Wow.”

“Mmm,” Lexa hums, already half asleep. She presses her lips to Clarke’s neck. “Night, Clarke.”

Clarke chuckles and reaches to grab the duvet and pull it over them, because they’re warm now but their hair’s still wet, and she doesn’t want Lexa to wake up cold.

At first she tries to fight off sleep, because Lexa’s pressed against her and she’s _naked_ and Clarke literally can’t remember the last time she felt this content. She thinks back to all her past relationships -- Finn and that girl from Anthro 101 year and that boy in high school -- and even in her happiest moments with them nothing compared to this. What she has with Lexa is so different -- so much better -- it feels cheap to even compare them.

The last thing Clarke thinks before she drifts off is how excited she is to wake up tomorrow.

***

The early morning light is soft and timid, sifting through the bedroom windows, but Clarke usually doesn’t forget to shut the blinds, so it wakes her up.

She doesn’t mind, though, because Lexa shifted in her sleep, with her back against Clarke’s front, and Clarke tightens her grip around her waist. The duvet has slipped halfway down their bodies, but it’s warm enough, so she leaves it be.

Clarke kisses the back of Lexa’s neck and then that soft spot just behind her ear, and when Lexa hums and squeezes her hand Clarke tells her.

“Hey,” she whispers. “I love you.”

She hears Lexa pull in a breath and then she’s turning over so they’re facing one another again. Her eyes are lidded and her smile is drowsy when she reaches out to trace Clarke’s jaw, then the apples of her cheeks.

Somehow, even after everything last night, Lexa’s gentle acceptance is almost too much.

“You’d already fallen asleep when I remembered I hadn’t even said it,” Clarke continues. “I’m such an idiot.”

Lexa frowns, looking a bit like a wounded puppy, and Clarke can’t help but kiss the corner of her mouth. “No you’re not,” she says. “You’re many things, Clarke, but that is not one of them.”

“Many things, huh?” Clarke grins and nuzzles into her. “Like, I don’t know, _baby_.” She leans back to get a better look at Lexa and it’s as good as she was expecting -- her mouth is hanging open, her cheeks tinged pink. “You called me that last night,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Just in case you forgot.”

Lexa narrows her eyes, rising to the challenge. “If we’re reminiscing about things we said last night then I have a few choice words that I recall you saying, like--”

“Nooo, no no!” Clarke laughs and launches herself at Lexa, pinning her on her back and pressing her hand over her mouth, feeling her smirk beneath her palm. “No need for that. Besides, I liked it. The ‘baby’ thing.”

Clarke drops her hand from Lexa’s face and she’s gazing up at her with the sweetest smile. “Yeah?” Lexa asks.

“Mmhm,” Clarke says. Lexa’s hair is curly and wild -- even more than usual -- and Clarke tucks a strand behind her ear. “In fact, I can’t think of a single thing from last night that I didn’t like.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, at that, but then her hands settle on Clarke’s hips, giving her a little squeeze. Clarke swallows, realizing she’s blissfully sore around the same time she registers that they’re both still completely naked, and her knee is wedged between Lexa’s thighs.

“Remind me?” Lexa lifts her hips off the mattress, rutting against her, and Clarke gasps.

She’s about to do just that when her phone starts vibrating on the nightstand. There’s literally nothing more she wants to do than ignore it, but no one ever calls her this early, so she decides to see who it is.

”Huh, it’s Raven.”

“Hello?” Clarke answers, but her voice is husky and she can hardly hear it. She clears her throat and tries again. “ _Hello_?”

“Um… _Clarke_?”

“Yes, Raven. It’s Clarke. You called me. Is there an emergency or can I call you back later?”

She hears a muffled laugh from the other end of the line. “Oh my god,” Raven says. “Lexa’s with you, isn’t she. Man, Monty’s gonna rue the day he took this bet!”

“You’re seriously calling me to confirm a bet right now? I’m hanging up.”

Lexa squirms beneath her, wrapping her arms around her neck to pull her closer, and Clarke’s thumb is nearly on the “end call” button when she hears Raven shouting for her to wait.

“Raven! What!”

“Jeez, Clarke, I’d think you’d be a little more grateful to your friend who’s trying to save _both_ of your jobs -- the two of you were supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

Clarke’s eyes widen as the realization dawns on her.

“Um, were you supposed to open this morning?” she asks Lexa, who literally gasps (the nerd). “Fuck.”

“Shit, sorry Raven,” she says into the receiver, though she’s not sure if her friend can even hear through all her laughing. “We’ll be there as soon as we can!”

Lexa’s already scrambling out of bed, cursing under her breath, and Clarke’s so distracted by the _sight_ of her that she forgets to hang up the phone.

“Hey Griff,” she hears Raven say. “Way to get the girl.”

***

In the end, they’re nearly an hour late when they stroll into work hand-in-hand. Clarke doesn’t care -- she knows Raven will cover for them -- and even Lexa doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.

After they say their goodbyes Lexa smiles and turns to go clock in, but Clarke reaches for her hand again and reels her back. She guide’s Lexa’s arms around her waist before winding hers around her neck, leaning in until their foreheads touch.

“317,” Clarke says.

“What?”

“The number of times I’ve wanted to tell you.”

“Wait, seriously? You’ve been keeping count.”

“Pfft no, that’d be insane.” Clarke laughs, and she can practically hear Lexa roll her eyes. “But it was a great line, right?”

“Yeah, babe.” Lexa kisses her cheek. “Totally swoon-worthy. Well done.”

***

When Lexa stops by for her morning coffee Clarke just grins at her as she hands her the cup.

**I love you, Lex. (#318)**

**Author's Note:**

> lmk what you think & then come say hey [on tumblr](http://hedaswolf.tumblr.com) :D


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